THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   MYSTICS 


A  Ninifl 


KATHERINE  CECIL  THURSTON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  MASQUERADER  "   "THE  GAMBLER" 


ILLUSTRATED 


TTT1 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK  AND    LONDON 

M  C  M  V  I  I 


T7V 


; ^.'/'■•Jl^w- 


^!5<^><<;v  SJjjMlTs! 


****% 


Copyright,  1904,  by  Kathkrinb  Cecil  Thurston. 

All  rights  reserved. 

Published  April,  1907. 


To   my  Cousin 
Nancy  Inez  Pollock 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


<( 


THE    PROPHET    WITH    HIS    FIXED    GAZE 

UPON   THE    SCITSYM"  Frontispiece 

"THE  FIGURE  OF  HIS  UNCLE  .  .  .  SHOWED 
TALL  AND  ANGULAR  IN  THE  APER- 
TURE       FacinRp.  20 

"HE    .    .    .    GATHERED   THE    FIRST    SHEAF 

OF  LEAVES  INTO  HIS  FINGERS "  .  .  "  40 
"ACROSS  THE  PROPHET'S  BREAST,  IN 
MARKS  OF  A  CRUEL  LACERATION, 
RAN  THE  SYMBOLIC  OCTAGONAL  FIG- 
URE OF  THE  MYSTIC  SECT"  ...  "  56 
WITH  A  FRESH  BURST  OF  TEARS,  SHE 
TURNED  AND  FLUNG  HERSELF  UPON 
THE    COUCH" "ll6 

"her   hand   was  trembling   as    she 
raised  the  heavy  knocker "   .    . 


<< 


"'i   AM    IN   NEED   OF   HELP  .  .   .  AND  YOU 
CAN    HELP    ME  '  " 


!3^ 
146 


SHE  SAW  THE  FIGURE  OF  THE  PROPHET 
.  .  .  ATTENDED  BY  THE  PRECURSOR 
AND   THE    SIX    ARCH-MYSTICS ".       .      .         "       158 


ThC    MYSTICS 


Trt£  MX5TICS 


CHAPTER  I 


IF  all  the  sensations  to  which 
the  human  mind  is  a  prey, 
there  is  none  so  powerful  in 
its  finality,  so  chilling  in  its 
sense  of  an  impending  event 
as  the  knowledge  that  Death — grim,  implaca- 
ble Death — has  cast  his  shadow  on  a  life  that 
custom  and  circumstance  have  rendered  fa- 
miliar. Whatever  the  personal  feeling  may 
be — whether  dismay,  despair,  or  relief — no 
man  or  woman  can  watch  that  advancing 
shadow  without  a  quailing  at  the  heart,  an 
individual  shrinking  from  the  terrible,  natu- 
ral mystery  that  we  must  all  face  in  turn — 
each  for  himself  and  each  alone. 


ThC    (VjySTlCS 


In  a  gaunt  house  on  the  loneliest  point 
where  the  Scottish  coast  overlooks  the  Irish 
Sea,  John  Henderson  was  watching  his  uncle 
die.  In  the  plain,  whitewashed  room  where 
the  sick  man  lay,  a  fire  was  burning  and  a 
couple  of  oil-lamps  shed  an  uncertain  glow; 
but  outside,  the  wind  roared  inland  from  the 
shore,  and  the  rain  splashed  in  furious  show- 
ers against  the  windows  of  the  house.  It 
was  a  night  of  tumult  and  darkness;  but 
neither  the  old  man  who  lay  waiting  for  the 
end  nor  the  young  man  who  watched  that 
end  approaching  gave  any  heed  to  the  tur- 
moil of  the  elements.  Each  was  self- en- 
grossed. 

Except  for  an  occasional  rasping  cough,  or 
a  slow,  indrawn  breath,  no  sign  came  from 
the  small  iron  bedstead  on  which  the  dying 
man  lay.  His  hard,  emaciated  face  was  set 
in  an  impenetrable  mask;  his  glazed  eyes 
were  fixed  immovably  on  a  distant  portion 
of  the  ceiling;    and   his  hands   lay  clasped 

2 


TMEL    (V)y5TICS 


(U#4($4@<fr&^A4cf&f>H 

upon  his  breast,  covering  some  object  that 
depended  from  his  neck. 

He  had  lain  thus  since  the  doctor  from  the 
neighboring  town  had  braved  the  rising  storm 
and  ridden  over  to  see  him  in  the  fall  of  the 
evening;  and  no  accentuation  of  the  gale  that 
lashed  the  house,  no  increase  in  the  roar  of 
the  ocean  three  hundred  yards  away,  had 
power  to  interrupt  his  lethargy. 

In  curious  contrast  was  the  expression  that 
marked  his  nephew's  face.  An  extraordinary 
suppressed  energy  was  visible  in  every  line  of 
John  Henderson's  body  as  he  sat  crouching 
over  the  fire;  and  a  look  of  irrepressible  ex- 
citement smoldered  in  the  eyes  that  gazed  into 
the  glowing  coals.  He  was  barely  twenty- 
three  years  old,  but  the  self-control  that  comes 
from  endurance  and  privation  sat  unmistaka- 
bly on  his  knitted  brows  and  closed  lips.  He 
was  neither  handsome  of  feature  nor  graceful 
of  figure,  yet  there  was  something  more  strik- 
ing and  interestim:  than  either  grace  or  beauty 

3 


THE.    MYSTICS 


in  the  strong,  youthful  form  and  the  strong, 
intelligent  face.  For  a  long  time  he  retained 
his  crouching  seat  on  the  wooden  stool  that 
stood  before  the  hearth;  then  at  last  the 
activity  at  work  within  his  mind  made  further 
inaction  intolerable.  He  rose  and  turned 
towards  the  bed. 

The  dying  man  lay  motionless,  awaiting 
the  final  summons  with  that  aloofness  that 
suggests  a  spirit  already  partially  extricated 
from  its  covering  of  flesh.  His  glassy  eyes 
were  still  fixed  and  immovable  save  for  an 
occasional  twitching  of  the  eyelids;  his  pallid 
lips  were  drawn  back  from  his  strong,  promi- 
nent teeth;  and  the  skin  about  his  temples 
looked  shrivelled  and  sallow.  The  doctor's 
parting  words  came  sharply  to  the  younger 
man's  mind. 

"Sit  still  and  watch  him — you  can  do  no 
more." 

He  reiterated  this  injunction  many  times 
mentally  as  he  stood  contemplating  the  man 

4 


ThC    MYSTICS 


who  for  seven  interminable  years  had  ruled, 
repressed,  and  worked  him  as  he  might  have 
worked  a  well-constructed,  manageable  ma- 
chine; and  a  sudden  rush  of  joy,  of  freedom 
and  reeompense  flooded  his  heart  and  set  his 
pulses  throbbing.  I  [e  momentarily  lost  sight 
of  the  grim  shadow  hovering  over  the  house. 
The  sense  of  emancipation  rose  tumultuously, 
over-ruling  even  the  immense  solemnity  of 
approaching  Death. 

John  Henderson  had  known  little  of  the 
easy,  pleasant  paths  of  life,  carpeted  by 
wealth  and  sheltered  by  influence.  His  most 
childish  and  distant  recollections  carried  him 
back  to  days  of  anxious  poverty.  His  father, 
the  elder  son  of  a  wealthy  Scottish  land- 
owner, had  quarrelled  with  his  father,  and  at 
the  age  of  twenty  left  his  home,  disinherited 
in  favor  of  his  younger  brother.  Possessed  of 
a  peculiar  temperament  -passionate,  head- 
strong, dogged  in  his  resolves,  he  had  shaken 
the   dust  of  Scotland    from    his    feet;     sworn 

5 


Ttt£.    (vmTHS, 

never  to  be  beholden  to  either  father  or 
brother  for  the  fraction  of  a  penny,  and  had 
gone  out  into  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune. 
But  the  fortune  had  been  far  to  seek.  For 
years  he  had  followed  the  sea;  for  years  he 
had  toiled  on  land;  but  in  every  undertaking 
failure  stalked  him.  Finally,  at  the  age  of 
fifty,  he  touched  success  for  the  first  time. 
He  fell  in  love  and  found  his  love  return- 
ed. But  here  again  the  irony  of  fate  was 
constant  in  its  pursuit.  The  object  of 
his  choice  was  the  daughter  of  an  artist,  a 
man  as  needy,  as  entirely  unfortunate  as  he 
himself. 

But  love  at  fifty  is  sometimes  as  blind  as  love 
at  twenty-five.  With  an  improvidence  that  be- 
lied his  nationality,  Alick  Henderson  married 
after  a  courtship  as  brief  as  it  was  happy.  For 
a  year  he  shared  the  hap-hazard  life  of  his 
wife  and  father-in-law;  then  Nature  saw  fit  to 
alter  the  small  menaoe.  The  artist  died,  and 
almost  at  the  same  time  little  John  was  born. 

6 


ThE.    (V»y5TICS 


With  the  coming  of  the  child,  Henderson 
conceived  a  new  impetus  and  also  a  new  sense 
of  bitterness  and  self-reproach.  A  homeless 
failure  may  tramp  the  face  of  the  earth  and 
feel  no  shame;  hut  the  unsuccessful  man  who 
is  a  husband  and  a  father  moves  upon  a  dif- 
ferent plane.  He  has  ties — responsibilities — 
something  for  which  he  must  answer  to 
himself. 

There  is  pathos  in  the  picture  of  a  man 
setting  forth  it  fifty-one  to  conquer  the  world 
anew;  and  its  grim  futility  is  not  good  to  look 
upon.  Henderson  had  faded  for  himself,  and 
he  failed  equally  for  others.  The  years  that 
followed  his  marriage  were  but  the  unwinding 
of  a  pitifully  old  story.  Before  his  boy  was 
ten  years  old  he  had  run  the  gamut  of  humilia- 
tion; he  had  done  everything  that  the  pinch 
of  poverty  could  demand,  except  apply  for 
aid  to  his  brother  Andrew.  This  even  the 
faithful,  patient  wife  who  had  stood  stanch 
in  all  his  trials  never  dared  to  suggest. 

7 


the:  mystics 

In  this  atmosphere  John  learned  to  look 
upon  life.  A  naturally  high-spirited  and 
courageous  child,  he  gradually  fell  under 
that  spell  of  premature  understanding  that  is 
the  portion  of  a  mind  forced  too  soon  to  realize 
the  significance  of  ways  and  means.  Day  by 
day  his  serious  eyes  grew  to  comprehend  the 
lines  that  marked  his  mother's  beloved  face; 
to  know  the  cost  at  which  his  own  education, 
his  own  wants,  were  supplied  by  the  tired, 
silent  father,  who,  despite  his  shabby  clothes 
and  prematurely  broken  air,  seemed  perpetu- 
ally to  move  in  the  glamour  of  a  past  romance; 
and  gradually,  steadily,  passionately,  as  these 
things  came  home  to  him,  there  grew  up  in  his 
youthful  mind  a  desire  to  compensate  by  his 
own  future  for  the  struggle  he  daily  witnessed. 

Manv  were  the  nights  when— his  lessons 
for  the  next  day  finished,  and  his  father  away 
at  one  of  the  many  precarious  tasks  that  kept 
the  household  together — -he  would  draw  close 
to  his  mother,  as  she  sat  industriously  sewing, 

8 


The:  (vmncs 


and  beg  her  for  the  hundredth  time  to  recount 
the  story  of  the  grim  Scotch  home  where  his 
father  had  lost  his  birthright;  of  the  stern  old 
grandfather  who  had  died  inexorably  unfor- 
giving; of  the  unknown  uncle  of  whom  rumor 
told  many  eccentric  stories.  And,  roused  by 
the  recital,  his  boyish  face  would  flush,  his 
boyish  mind  leap  forward  towards  the  future. 

"'Twill  all  come  back,  mother!"  he  would 
cry.  "'Twill  all  come  back!  I'll  win  it 
back!" 

And,  with  a  sobbing  laugh,  his  mother 
would  drop  her  sewing  and  draw  him  to  her 
heart  in  a  sudden  yearning  of  love  and  pride. 

In  such  surroundings  and  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere he  passed  sixteen  years;  then  the  first 
upheaval  of  his  life  took  place.     His  father 

died. 

His  first  recollection — when  the  terrible  ne- 
cessities of  the  event  were  past,  and  his  own 
grief  and  consternation  had  partially  sub- 
sided— was  the  remembrance  of  his  mother 

9 


calling  him  to  her  room;  of  her  kissing  him, 
crying  over  him  and  telling  him  of  the  resolve 
she  had  taken  to  write  and  make  known  his 
existence  to  his  uncle  in  Scotland. 

The  confession  at  first  overwhelmed  him. 
His  own  pride,  his  sense  of  loyalty  to  his 
father's  memory  prompted  him  to  cry  out 
against  the  idea  as  against  a  sacrilege.  Then 
slowly  his  boyish,  immature  mind  grasped 
something  of  the  nobility  that  prompted  the 
decision — something  of  the  inexpressible  love 
that  counted  sentiment  and  personal  dignity 
as  nothing  beside  his  own  future;  and  in  a 
passion  of  gratitude  he  flung  his  arms  about 
his  mother,  repeating  the  old  childish  vows 
with  a  new  and  deeper  force. 

So  the  letter  to  Scotland  was  despatched; 
and  a  time  of  sharp  suspense  followed  for 
mother  and  son.  Then,  one  never-to-be-for- 
gotten day,  the  answer  arrived. 

Andrew  Henderson  wrote  unemotionally. 
He  expressed  formal  regret  for  his  brother's 

10 


ThC    (Vjy5TIC5 


death,  but  evinced  no  interest  in  his  sister-in- 
law's  position.  He  briefly  described  himself 
ns  living  an  isolated  life  in  a  small  house  on 
the  sea-coast,  a  dozen  miles  from  the  family 
home  which  had  remained  untenanted  since 
his  father's  death.  He  admitted  that  with 
advancing  years  the  duties  of  life  had  begun 
to  weigh  upon  him,  diverting  his  mind  and 
time  from  the  graver  pursuits  to  which  his 
life  was  devoted;  finally  he  grudgingly  sug- 
gested that,  should  his  nephew  care  to  un- 
dertake the  duties  of  secretary  at  a  salary  of 
sixty  pounds  a  year,  he  might  find  a  home 
with  him. 

The  immediate  feeling  that  followed  the 
reading  of  the  letter  was  fraught  with  chilling 
disappointment.  On  the  moment,  pride  again 
asserted  itself,  urging  a  swift  refusal  of  the 
rich  man's  proposal;  then  once  more  the 
patience  that  had  kept  Mrs.  Henderson 
brave  and  gentle  during  seventeen  years 
of   wearing    poverty    made    itself   felt.     All 

1 1 


the.  mystics 


A&d" 


thought  of  personal  grievance  faded  from 
her  mind  as  she  pointed  out  the  urgent 
necessity  of  John's  being  seen  and  known  by 
this  uncle,  whose  only  relation  and  ostensible 
heir  he  was.  She  talked  for  long,  wisely  and 
kindly — as  mothers  talk  out  of  the  unselfish 
fulness  of  their  hearts — and  with  every  word 
the  golden  castles  of  her  imagination  rose 
tower  on  tower  to  form  the  citadel  in  which 
her  son  was  to  reign  supreme. 

So  wisely  and  so  lovingly  did  she  talk  that 
she  persuaded  not  only  the  boy,  but  herself, 
into  the  belief  that  he  had  but  to  reach  Scot- 
land to  make  his  inheritance  sure;  and  before 
the  day  closed  she  wrote  to  Andrew  Hender- 
son accepting  his  offer.  A  week  later  the 
whole  light  of  her  life  went  out,  as  she  watched 
the  train  steam  out  of  the  station,  carrying 
John  northward. 

Upon  the  days  that  followed  his  arrival  in 
Scotland  there  is  no  need  to  dwell.  He  came 
as  a  stranger,  and  as  a  stranger  he  was  intro- 

12 


the:  wysTics 


duced  by  his  uncle  to  the  routine  of  work 
expected  of  him.  No  mention  was  made  of 
his  recent  loss,  no  suggestion  was  given  that 
his  mother  should  make  her  double  bereave- 
ment easier  by  visits  to  her  son.  Whatever  of 
hope  or  sentiment  he  had  brought  with  him, 
he  was  left  to  destroy  or  smother  as  best  he 
could. 

The  first  week  resolved  itself  into  one  round 
of  boyish  homesickness  and  desolation;  then 
gradually,  as  the  marvellous  healing  proper- 
ties of  youth  began  to  srir,  a  new  feeling 
awakened  in  his  mind — a  sense  of  curiosity 
concerning  the  strange  old  man  whom  fate, 
by  a  twist  of  the  wheel,  had  made  the  arbiter 
of  his  life.  Even  to  one  so  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced, it  was  impossible  to  know  Andrew 
Henderson  and  not  to  feel  that  some  strand- 
peculiarity  set  him  apart  from  other  men. 
In  his  ascetic  face,  in  his  large,  light-blue 
eyes,  in  his  extraordinary  air  of  abstraction 
and   aloofness   from   mundane   things,   there 

13 


the:  mystics 


was  something  that  fascinated  and  repelled; 
and  with  a  wondering  interest  the  boy  studied 
these  things,  trying  in  his  unformed  way  to 
reconcile  them  with  his  narrow  experience  of 
human  nature. 

For  many  weeks  he  sought  without  suc- 
cess for  some  key  to  the  attitude  of  this  new- 
found relative.  Then  one  evening — when 
solution  seemed  least  near — the  key,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  fell  at  his  feet.  Return- 
ing home  from  a  ramble  over  the  headland, 
his  observant  eye  was  caught  by  the  sight  of 
a  narrow  foot-track  that,  crossing  the  main 
pathway  of  the  cliff,  wound  steeply  upward 
and  seemingly  lost  itself  in  a  tangle  of  gorse 
and  bracken.  Stirred  by  a  boyish  desire 
for  exploration,  he  paused,  turned  into  this 
obscure  track,  and  incontinently  began  its 
ascent. 

For  some  hundreds  of  yards  it  led  upward 
in  a  sharp  incline;  and  with  its  added  steep- 
ness, the  ardor  of  the  explorer  warmed.    With 

14 


The  ivmncs 


impetuous  haste  he  climbed  the  last  dozen 
yards;  when,  as  the  anticipated  summit  was 
reached,  he  halted  in  abrupt,  dismayed  sur- 
prise; for  with  alarming  suddenness  the  land 
broke  off  short,  disclosing  a  deep  gap  or 
fissure,  carpeted  with  heather  and  surround- 
ed by  natural  protecting  walls  of  rock,  in 
the  centre  of  which  was  set  a  miniature 
chapel  built  of  dark  stone. 

At  sight  of  the  little  edifice,  he  thrilled  with 
adventurous  surprise.  There  was  something 
mysterious,  something  almost  fine  in  the  sight 
of  the  small  temple,  with  the  setting  sun 
gleaming  on  its  solid  walls,  its  low,  massive 
door  and  round  window  of  thick  stained  glass. 
He  leaned  out  over  the  shelving  rock,  staring 
down  upon  it  with  wide,  astonished  eyes; 
then  the  natural  instinct  of  the  boy  over- 
topped every  other  feeling.  With  a  quick- 
movement  of  excitement  and  expectation,  he 
began  to  descend  into  the  hollow. 

But  though  he  walked  round  the  little  build- 

15 


ing  a  dozen  times,  shook  the  heavy  door  and 
peered  ineffectually  into  the  opaque  window, 
nothing  rewarded  his  curiosity,  and  after  half 
an  hour  of  diligent  endeavor  he  was  compelled 
to  return  home  no  wiser  than  when  he  had 
first  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  path  and 
looked  down  into  the  rocky  cleft. 

All  that  evening,  however,  the  thought  ol 
his  discovery  remained  with  him.  At  the 
eight-o'clock  supper  of  porridge,  vegetables, 
and  fruit  which  he  shared  with  his  uncle,  he 
chafed  under  the  silence  of  his  companion 
and  at  the  air  of  calm  indifference  that  the 
whitewashed  room  with  its  raftered  ceiling 
seemed  to  wear;  and  it  was  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction  that  he  rose  from  table  and  bade 
his  uncle  a  formal  good-night. 

With  the  same  suggestion  of  relief,  he 
watched  the  old  man  light  his  candle  and 
ascend  the  bare  stairs  to  his  own  room;  then 
prompted  by  the  impulse  he  never  neglect- 
ed, he  went  into  the  study  to  write  the  daily 

16 


THE!    MYSTICS 

letter  that  made  his  mother's  existence  bear- 
able. 

He  wrote  for  nearly  an  hour,  omitting  no 
detail  of  the  evening's  discovery.  Then,  as 
he  closed  and  sealed  the  letter,  a  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece  struck  ten.  The  sound  had  an 
oddly  hollow  and  chilly  effect  in  the  bare, 
carpetless  room;  and  unconsciously  he  raised 
his  head  and  glanced  about  him.  Mis  idi 
still  stirred  by  his  adventure,  were  more  prone 
than  usual  to  the  suggestion  of  outward  things; 
and  tor  almost  the  first  time  since  his  arrival, 
he  felt  drawn  to  study  his  intimate  surround- 
ings. With  a  new  curiosity  he  let  his  eyes 
wander  from  the  severe  book-shelves  to  the 
ugly  iron  safe  that  stood  in  the  most  promi- 
nent position  in  the  room;  and  from  the  safe 
his  glance  turned  to  the  revolving  bookcase  by 
his  uncle's  favorite  chair,  in  which  lay  the 
\olumes  that  were  in  daily  use.  Following  an 
impulse  he  had  never  previously  been  con- 
scious of,  he  crossed  the  room,  and  drawing 

17 


The:   r*iysTics 

three  books,  at  hap-hazard  from  the  case, 
studied  their  titles. 

The  Indissoluble  Essence,  he  read;  The 
Soul  in  Relation  to  the  Human  Mind;  The 
Mystic  Influence. 

He  stood  for  a  space  gazing  at  the  sombre 
covers,  but  making  no  attempt  to  dip  into 
their  pages;  then  a  sudden  look  of  compre- 
hension sprang  into  his  eyes.  The  oddly 
built  stone  chapel  took  on  a  new  and  more 
personal  meaning.  With  a  quick  gesture  he 
thrust  the  books  back  into  their  place,  extin- 
guished the  lamp,  and  softly  left  the  room. 
Gaining  the  hall,  he  did  not  turn  towards  the 
stairs;  but  tiptoeing  to  the  table,  picked  up 
his  cap,  crossed  the  hall  noiselessly  and  opened 
the  outer  door. 

The  warmth  of  the  August  day  was  still 
heavy  on  the  air  as  he  stepped  into  the  open; 
a  great  copper-colored  moon  hung  low  over 
the  sea,  and  a  soft,  filmy  haze  lay  over  both 
land  and  water.     Without  hesitation  he  turned 

18 


the:   Mysncs 


into  the  cliff  path,  and  followed  it  until  his 
quick  eyes  caught  the  indistinct  foot-track 
that  he  had  discovered  earlier  in  the  evening. 
With  the  same  decision,  the  same  suggestion 
of  anticipation,  he  stepped  rapidly  forward 
and  once  more  began  the  sharp  ascent. 

The  imperils  of  his  curiosity  carried  him 
forward;  he  mounted  the  path  in  hot  haste; 
then,  as  he  gained  the  summit,  he  halted  again, 
hut  in  new  surprise.  In  the  hazy,  mellow 
moonlight,  the  small  building  stood  out 
sharp  and  dark  as  on  his  previous  visit,  but 
from  the  round,  stained-glass  window  a  flood 
of  light— crimson,  rose-color,  and  gold — 
poured  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER   II 

N  the  first  moment  of  aston- 
ishment, John  stood  motion- 
less, his  gaze  riveted  on  the 
glow  of  color  that  poured 
through  the  window  upon  the 
rocks  and  heather  of  the  cleft.  Then,  as  he 
continued  to  stand  with  widely  opened  eyes, 
another  surprise  was  sprung  upon  him.  The 
door  of  the  chapel  opened  and  the  figure  of 
his  uncle— long  since  supposed  to  be  sleeping 
tranquilly  in  his  own  room — showed  tall  and 
angular  in  the  aperture. 

From  John's  position,  the  open  door  and 
the  lighted  interior  of  the  little  edifice  were 
distinctly  visible;  and  in  one  glance  he  saw 
his  uncle's  silhouetted  figure  and  behind  it  a 
bare  space  some  dozen  feet  square,  lined  on 
floor  and  walls  with  sections  of  marble  alter- 


20 


THE    FIGURE    OF    HIS    I  NCLE    .    .    .    SHOWED  TALI 

AND    ANGULAR     IN     I  III-     MM  R  II   Kl    " 


TMC    (vmTICS 


nately  black  and  white.  From  the  ceiling  of 
this  chamber  depended  an  octagonal  symbol 
in  polished  metal,  and  close  by  the  door  eight 
wax  candles  flickered  slightly  in  the  faint  stir 
of  air.  But  his  astonished  and  inquisitive  eyes 
had  barely  become  aware  of  these  details 
when  Andrew  Henderson  turned  towards  the 
circular  sconce  in  which  the  candles  were  set 
and  began  to  extinguish  them  one  by  one. 
As  the  light  died,  he  stepped  forward  and 
|ohn  drew  back  sharply;  but  at  his  move- 
ment a  stone,  loosened  by  his  heel,  went  roll- 
ing down  into  the  hollow.  And  a  moment 
later  his  uncle,  glancing  up,  saw  his  figure 
outlined  against  the  luminous  sky. 

What  the  outcome  of  the  incident  would 
have  been  on  any  other  occasion,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say.  As  it  was,  the  moment  was  pro- 
pitious. Old  Henderson,  surprised  in  an 
instant  of  exaltation,  was  pleased  to  put  his 
own  narrow,  superstitious  construction  on 
the   boy's   appearance.     Laboring   under  an 


the:  My5Tics 


U»4<S>ft©*S3*A4cri»4t 

abnormal  excitement,  he  showed  no  resent- 
ment at  the  fact  of  being  spied  upon;  but 
calling  John  to  him,  ordered  him  to  walk 
home  beside  him  across  the  cliff. 

Never  was  walk  so  strange — never  were 
companions  so  ill-matched  as  the  two  who 
threaded  their  way  back  over  the  headland. 
Andrew  Henderson  walked  first,  talking  all 
the  time  in  a  jargon  addressed  partly  to  the 
boy,  partly  to  himself,  in  which  mysticism 
was  oddly  tangled  with  a  confusion  of  crazy 
theories  and  beliefs;  behind  came  John,  half 
fascinated  and  wholly  bewildered  by  the 
medley  of  words  that  poured  out  upon  the 
night. 

On  reaching  the  house,  the  old  man  became 
suddenly  silent  again,  falling  back  as  if  by 
habit  into  the  morose  absorption  that  marked 
his  daily  life;  but  as  he  turned  to  mount  the 
stairs  to  his  own  room,  he  paused  and  his 
curious  light -blue  eyes  travelled  over  his 
nephew's  face. 

22 


the:   mystics 


C  ■■-.- -  I    I     II  ■■■       ■  I  I     M      —  -  I  — 

"Good-night!"  he  said.  "You  make  a 
good  listener." 

And  John — still  confused  and  silent — re- 
tired to  bed,  to  lie  awake  for  many  hours, 
partly  thrilled  and  partly  elated  by  the  awe- 
some thouiiht  that  there  was  a  madman  in 
the  house. 

But  all  that  had  happened  seven  years  ago, 
and  now  Andrew  Henderson  lay  waiting  for 
his  end.  In  those  seven  years  John  had  pass- 
ed through  the  mill  of  deadly  monotony  that 
saps  even  youth,  and  lulls  every  instinct  save 
hope.  The  first  enthusiasm  of  romance  that 
had  wrapped  the  discovery  of  his  uncle's  se- 
cret had  faded  out  with  time.  By  slow  degrees 
he  had  learned — partly  from  his  own  observa- 
tion, partly  from  the  old  man's  occasional 
fanatic  outbursts  —  that  the  strange  chapel 
with  its  metal  symbol  and  marble  floor  was 
not  the  outcome  of  a  private  whim,  but  the 
manifestation  of  a  creed  that  boasted  a  small 

23 


the:  wysTics 


but  ardent  band  of  followers.  He  had  learn- 
ed that — to  themselves,  if  not  to  the  world — 
these  devotees  were  known  as  the  Mystics; 
that  their  articles  of  faith  were  preserved  in 
a  secret  book  designated  the  Scitsym,  which 
passed  in  rotation  each  year  from  one  to 
another  of  the  six  Arch-Mystics,  remaining 
in  the  care  of  each  for  two  months  out  of  the 
twelve.  He  had  discovered  that  London  was 
the  Centre  of  this  sect;  and  that  its  funda- 
mental belief  was  the  anticipation  of  a  mys- 
terious prophet — human,  and  yet  divinely 
inspired — by  whose  coming  the  light  was  to 
extend  from  the  small  and  previously  un- 
known band  across  the  whole  benighted  world. 
He  had  learned  all  these  things.  He  had 
been  stirred  to  a  passing  awe  by  the  discovery 
that  his  uncle  was,  in  his  own  person,  actually 
one  of  the  profound  Six  who  formed  the  Coun- 
cil of  the  sect  and  to  whom  alone  the  secrets  of 
its  creed  were  known;  and  for  three  successive 
years  his  interest  and  curiosity  had  been  kin- 

24 


TrtE.    (vmTICS 


died  when  Andrew  Henderson  travelled  to 
England  and  returned  with  the  Arch-Coun- 
cillor — an  old  blind  man  of  seventy — who  in- 
variably spent  one  day  and  night  mysteriously 
closeted  with  his  host  and  then  left,  having 
deposited  the  sacred  Scitsym  with  his  own 
hands  in  the  tall  iron  safe  that  stood  in  Hen- 
di  i  son's  study.  But  that  annual  excitement 
had  lessened  with  time.  Even  a  madman 
may  become  monotonous  when  we  live  with 
him,  day  in,  day  out,  for  seven  long  years; 
and  gradually  the  attitude  of  John's  mind  had 
changed  with  the  passage  of  time.  The  sense 
of  adventure  and  triumphant  enterprise  had 
steadily  receded;  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
working  out  a  slow,  distasteful  probation  had 
advanced.  Reluctantly  and  yet  definitely  he- 
had  realized  that  his  position  was  not  to  come 
and  conquer,  but  to  watch  and  wait;  ami  this 
consciousness  of  a  tacitly  expected  end  had 
grown  with  tin  years  with  tin-  growth  ol  his 
mind  and  body.      It  was  not  that  he  was  hard- 


lt\L    (ViySTICS 


natured.  The  regularity  with  which  he  de- 
spatched his  yearly  money  to  his  mother — 
reserving  the  merest  fraction  for  himself — 
precluded  that  idea.  But  he  was  young  and 
human,  and  he  was  youthfully  and  humanly 
greedy  to  possess  the  good  things  of  life  for 
himself  and  for  the  one  being  he  passionately 
loved.  It  would,  indeed,  have  been  an  en- 
thusiast in  virtue  who  could  have  blamed  him 
for  counting  upon  dead  men's  shoes. 

And  now  the  shoes  were  all  but  empty! 
He  stood  watching  his  uncle  die! 

Having  stayed  almost  motionless  for  sev- 
eral minutes,  he  glanced  at  the  clock;  then 
moved  to  the  bed,  taking  a  bottle  and  a 
medicine  spoon  from  the  dressing-table  as  he 
passed. 

"Time  for  your  medicine,  uncle!"  he  said, 
in  his  quiet,  level  voice. 

But  the  sick  man  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

In  a  slightly  louder  tone  John  repeated  his 
remark.  This  time  the  vacant  expression  faded 

26 


tme:   My^Tics 


U#>&fc&Q4£S<S>A4a,&<t'U 

slowly  from  the  large,  pale  eyes,  and  Andrew 
Henderson  moved  his  head  weakly. 

Seeing  the  indication  of  consciousness,  John 
carefully  measured  out  a  dose  of  medicine, 
and,  stooping  over  the  pillows,  passed  one 
arm  under  his  uncle's  neck. 

Andrew  Henderson  submitted  without  ob- 
jection, but  as  his  head  was  raised  and  the 
medicine  held  to  his  lips,  he  seemed  suddenly 
to  realize  the  position,  to  comprehend  that  it 
was  his  nephew  who  leaned  over  him.  With 
a  spasmodic  movement  he  turned  towards 
John,  his  lips  twitching  with  some  inward 
and  newly  aroused  excitement. 

"The  Book,  John!"  he  said,  sharply — "the 
Book!" 

John  remained  quite  composed.  With  a 
steady  band  he  balanced  the  spoon  of  medi- 
cine that  he  still  held. 

"Your  medicine  first,  uncle,"  he  said,  quiet- 
ly.    "We'll  talk  about  the  Book  after." 

But  the  old  man's  calm  had  been  disturbed. 

27 


THE.   fvjysTics 


With  unexpected  strength  he  raised  one  thin 
hand  and  pushed  the  spoon  aside,  spilling  the 
contents  on  the  bed. 

"How  can  I  leave  it?"  he  exclaimed. 
"How  can  I  go  and  leave  the  Book  unguard- 
ed ?"  Again  his  lips  twitched  and  a  feverish 
brightness  flickered  in  his  eyes  as  they  search- 
ed his  nephew's  face. 

'When  I  go,  John,"  he  added,  excitedly, 
"the  Book  may  be  in  your  keeping  for  hours 
—perhaps  for  a  whole  night.  I  know  the  Arch- 
Councillor  will  answer  my  summons  immedi- 
ately; but  it  is  possible  he  may  be  delayed.  It 
may  be  the  ordination  of  the  Unknown  that  I 
should  Pass  before  he  arrives.  If  this  is  so, 
I  want  you  to  guard  the  Book — but  also  I 
want  you  to  guard  my  dead  body.  Let  no 
one  touch  it  until  he  comes.  The  key  of  the 
safe  is  here—"  He  fumbled  weakly  for  the 
thin  chain  that  hung  about  his  neck.  "No 
one  must  remove  it — no  one  must  touch  it 
until  he  comes — "     His  voice  faltered. 

28 


the:  (vmncs 


With  a  calm  gesture  John  forced  him  back 
upon  the  pillows,  and  quietly  wiped  up  the 
medicine. 

Bur  with  a  fresh  effort  the  old  man  lifted 
himself  again. 

'  John,"  he  cried,  suddenly,  "do  you  under- 
stand what  I  am  saying  ?  Do  you  understand 
that  for  a  whole  night  you  may  be  alone  with 
the  inviolable  Scitsym  ?  'The  Hope  of  the 
Universe,  by  whose  Light  alone  the  One  and 
Only  Prophet  shall  be  made  known  unto  the 
Watchers!"  He  murmured  the  quotation  in 
a  low,  rapt  voice. 

Again  the  younger  man  attempted  to  soothe 
him. 

'Don't  distress  yourself!"  he  said,  gravely. 
'I  am  here.  You  can  trust  me.  Lie  back 
and   rest." 

But  his  uncle's  fact-  was  still  excitedly  per- 
turbed; his  pale  eyes  still  possessed  an  un- 
natural brightness. 

"Oh  yes!"  he  said,  sharply,  "I  trust  you! 

29 


ThC.    (ViySTICS 


A&Cf 


I  have  trusted  you.  I  have  left  a  letter  by 
which  you  will  see  that  I  have  trusted  you — 
and  that  your  fidelity  has  been  rewarded. 
But  this  is  another  matter.  Can  I  trust  you 
in  this?  Can  I  trust  you  as  myself?"  As 
he  put  the  question  a  sweat  of  weakness  and 
excitement  broke  out  over  his  forehead. 

But  it  was  neither  his  wild  appearance  nor 
his  question  that  suddenly  sent  the  blood  into 
John's  face  and  suddenly  set  his  heart  bound- 
ing. It  was  the  abrupt  and  unlooked-for 
justification  of  his  own  secret,  treasured  hope; 
the  tacit  acknowledgment  of  kinship  and 
obligation  made  now  by  Andrew  Henderson 
after  seven  unfruitful  years.  A  mist  rose  be- 
fore his  sight  and  his  mind  swam.  What  was 
the  mad  creed  of  a  dying  man — of  a  dozen 
dying  men — when  the  reward  of  his  own  long 
probation  awaited  him  ? 

But  the  old  man  was  set  to  his  purpose. 
With  shaking  fingers  he  fumbled  with  two 
small  objects  that  depended  from  the  chain 

3° 


ThC    MYSTICS 


about  his  neck.  And  as  he  held  them  up, 
John  saw  by  the  glow  of  the  lamp  that  one 
was  a  copy  in  miniature  of  the  metal  symbol 
that  decorated  the  little  chapel,  the  other  a 
long,  thin  key. 

As  Henderson  disentangled  and  raised  these 
objects  to  the  light,  his  eyes  turned  again  upon 
his  nephew . 

"John,"  he  said,  tremulously,  "I  want  you 
to  swear  to  me  by  the  Sign  that  you  will  not 
touch  mv  body — nor  anything  on  my  body — 
till  the  Arch-Councillor  comes!  Swear,  as  you 
hope  for  your  own  happiness!"  A  wild  illu- 
mination spread  over  his  face;  the  unpleasant 
fanatical  light  showed  again  in  his  eyes. 

For  a  moment  John  looked  at  him;  then 
stirred  by  his  own  emotions,  by  the  new  pang 
of  self-reproach  and  gratitude  towards  this 
half-crazy  man  so  near  his  end,  he  went  for- 
ward and  touched  the  small  octagonal  svmbol 
that  gleamed  in  the  light. 

"1  swear — by  the  Sign!"  he  said,  in  a  low, 


Trtt    (v»y5TICS 


level  voice.  And  almost  as  the  words  escaped 
him,  the  chain  slipped  from  old  Henderson's 
ringers,  his  jaw  dropped,  and  his  head  fell 
forward  on  his  chest. 

The  moments  that  follow  an  important 
event  are  seldom  of  a  nature  to  be  accurately 
analyzed.  For  a  long  while  John  remained 
motionless  and  speechless,  unable  to  realize 
that  the  huddled  figure  still  warm  in  his  arms 
was  in  reality  the  vessel  of  clay  from  which 
a  spirit  had  escaped.  Then  suddenly  the 
realization  of  the  position  came  to  him;  with 
a  sharp  movement  he  stood  upright,  and  seiz- 
ing the  bell-rope,  pulled  it  vigorously. 

When  the  old  woman  who  attended  to  the 
household  appeared,  he  pointed  to  her  mas- 
ter's body  and  explained  in  a  few  words  how 
the  end  had  come;  and  how  in  a  last  urgent 
command  Henderson  had  forbidden  his  body 
to  be  touched  until  the  arrival  of  a  member  of 
his  religious  sect.     The  old  woman  accepted 

32 


Th£    MySTICS 


the  explanation  with  the  apathy  common  to 
those  who  have  outlived  emotion;  and  with  a 
series  of  nods  and  unintelligible  mutterings 
methodically  proceeded  to  straighten  the  al- 
ready neatly  arranged  furniture  of  the  room, 
in  the  instinctive  belief  that  order  is  the  first 
tribute  to  be  paid  to  Death. 

With  something  of  the  same  feeling  John 
drew  the  coverlet  over  the  dead  body,  then 
turned  to  watch  the  old  woman  at  her  work. 
Hut  as  he  looked  at  her  a  desire  to  be  alone 
again  swept  over  him,  and  with  the  desire  a 
corresponding  impatience  of  her  slow  and 
measured  movements.  Chide  himself  as  he 
might  for  his  impatience,  curb  his  natural 
instinct  as  he  might,  it  was  humanly  impossi- 
ble that  his  strong  and  eager  spirit  could  give 
thought  to  Death — while  Life  was  claiming 
him  with  out-stretched  hands. 

He  held  himself  rigidly  in  check  until  the 
last  chair  had  been  arranged  and  the  last 
cinder  swept  from  the  hearth;    then  as  the 

33 


the:  my5Tics 


old  woman  slowly  crossed  the  room  and 
stepped  out  into  the  corridor,  he  sprang  with 
irrepressible  impetuosity  and  shut  and  locked 
the  door. 

He  had  no  superstitious  consciousness  of 
the  dead  body  so  close  at  hand.  The  dead 
body — and  with  it  the  dead  years  and  the 
long  probation  —  belonged  to  the  past;  he 
with  his  youth,  his  strength,  his  hope,  was 
bound  for  the  limitless  future. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  crossed 
to  his  uncle's  bureau,  which  stood  as  he  had 
left  it  three  days  before  when  his  last  illness 
had  seized  upon  him.  The  papers  were  all 
in  order;  the  ink  was  as  yet  scarcely  rusted 
on  the  pens;  the  key  protruded  from  the  lock 
of  the  private  drawer.  With  a  tremor  of  ex- 
citement John  extended  his  hand,  turned  it 
and  opened  the  drawer;  then  he  caught  his 
breath.  There  lay  a  square  white  envelope 
addressed  to  himself  in  his  uncle's  fantastic, 
crooked  handwriting. 

34 


Tht    MVSTICS 


As  he  drew  it  out  and  held  it  for  a  moment 
in  his  hand,  his  thoughts  centred  unerringly 
round  one  object.  In  a  moment,  the  seven 
years  of  waiting  -the  strange  death  scene  just 
enacted — even  Andrew  Henderson  and  his 
mystical  creed — were  blotted  from  his  mind  by 
a  wonderful  rose-colored  mist  of  hope,  from 
which  one  face  looked  out— the  patient,  ten- 
der, pathetic  face  of  the  mother  lie  adored. 
1  he  emotions,  so  long  suppressed,  welled  up 
as  they  had  been  wont  to  do  years  ago  in  the 
sordid  London  home. 

With  a  throb  of  confidence  and  anticipa- 
tion he  inserted  his  finger  under  the  Hap  of 
the  envelope  and  tore  it  open.  With  lightning 
speed  his  eyes  skimmed  the  oddly  written 
lines.  Then  a  short,  inarticulate  sound  es- 
caped him,  and  the  blood  suddenly  receded 
from  his  face. 

"My  DEAR  NEPHEW,"  he  read.— "In  acknowl- 
edgment of  your  services  during  the  past  seven 
1 1  ms — and  also  because  I  have  no  wish  to  nass  into 

35 


TMC  (vmncs 


A&Cf 


the  Unseen  with  the  stain  of  vindictiveness  on  my 
Soul — I  have  obliterated  from  my  mind  the  remem- 
brance of  my  brother's  ingratitude  to  our  father,  and 
have  placed  the  sum  of  £500  to  your  credit  in  the 
Cleef  branch  of  the  Consolidated  Bank.  I  trust  it 
may  assist  you  to  commence  an  industrious  career. 
For  the  rest,  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  my 
capital,  which  I  realized  upon  your  grandfather's 
death,  is  already  placed  in  the  treasury  of  the  sect 
to  which  I  belong — where  it  will  remain  until  claim- 
ed by  the  One  in  whose  ultimate  advent  I  most 
solemnly  believe. 

"I  make  you  cognizant  of  these  facts  that  all 
disputes  and  unnecessary  differences  may  be  avoid- 
ed after  my  death.  The  papers  by  which  my  prop- 
erty was  made  over  to  the  Mystics  some  five  years 
ago— together  with  a  doctor's  certificate  as  to  my 
mental  soundness  at  the  time — is  in  the  hands  of 
the  Council.  Any  attempt  to  unmake  this  dispo- 
sition of  my  fortune  would  be  fraught  with  failure, 

"With  sincere  hopes  for  your  future  welfare, 
"Your  uncle, 

"Andrew  Henderson." 

For  a  space  John  stood  pale  and  rigid;, 
making  no  attempt  to  reread  the  letter;  then 

36 


TKC    (vmTICS 

all  at  once  one  of  those  rare  and  curious 
upheavals  of  feeling  that  shake  men  to  their 
souls  seized  upon  him.  The  blood  rushed 
back  into  his  face  in  a  dark  wave;  the  rose- 
colored  mist  that  had  floated  before  his  vision 
flamed  suddenly  to  red;  the  same  implacable 
rage  that,  years  ago,  had  impelled  his  grand- 
father to  disinherit  his  favorite  son  swelled  in 
his  heart.  All  ideas,  all  considerations,  saw 
one,  became  blurred  and  indistinct;  but  this 
one  idea  rode  him,  spurred  him  to  a  frenzy 
of  desire.  It  was  the  blind,  instinctive, 
human  wish  to  wreak  his  loss  and  disap- 
pointment upon  some  tangible,  visible  ob- 
ject. 

With  a  dazed  movement  he  turned  to  the 
bed;  but  only  the  huddled,  impassive  figure 
beneath  the  coverlet  met  his  gaze.  For  more 
than  a  minute  he  stared  at  it  helplessly;  then 
a  new  thought  shot  across  his  mind  and  his 
lips  drew  together  in  a  thin,  hard  line.  The 
road  to  revenge  la\    open  before  him!      With 

37 


THE.    (vmTICS 


an  abrupt  gesture  he  stepped  forward  and 
pulled  back  the  counterpane. 

In  the  yellow  lamp-light  the  thin  face  of  the 
dead  man  had  an  ashen  hue;  the  half-opened 
eyes  and  the  prominent  teeth,  from  which  the 
lips  had  partly  receded,  confronted  him  grew- 
somely.  But  the  force  of  his  disappointment 
and  rage  was  something  before  which  mere 
human  horror  was  swept  aside.  With  an- 
other rapid  movement,  he  stooped  over  the 
bed  and  unclasped  the  thin  gold  chain  that 
hung  round  the  dead  man's  neck,  letting  the 
metal  symbol  and  the  long,  thin  key  slip  from 
it  into  his  hand.  Turning  to  the  dressing- 
table,  he  caught  up  a  lamp;  hurried  from  the 
room;  and,  descending  the  stairs,  passed  into 
the  study. 

To  his  excited  glance  the  place  looked 
strangely  undisturbed.  Though  the  frames 
of  the  windows  rattled  in  the  gale,  the  interior 
arrangements  were  as  precise  and  bare  as 
usual;   the  fireless  grate  stared  at  him  coldly, 

3* 


ThE.   wysTics 


and  against  the  whitewashed  wall  the  heavy 
iron  safe  stood  out  like  an  accentuated  blot 
of  shadow.  Impelled  by  his  one  dominating 
idea,  he  crossed  without  an  instant's  hesita- 
tion to  the  door  of  this  hitherto  inviolable 
repository  of  his  uncle's  secrets,  and,  inserting 
the  key  he  carried,  threw  back  the  massive 
door. 

One  glance  showed  him  the  thing  he  sought. 
Lying  in  solitary  state  upon  the  highest  shelf 
was  a  heavy  book  bound  in  white  leather. 
The  edges  of  the  cover  were  worn  yellow  with 
time  and  use,  and  from  the  centre  of  the  bind- 
ing gleamed  the  familiar  octagonal  symbol 
exquisitely  wrought  in  gold  and  jewels.  With 
hands  that  trembled  slightly  he  lifted  the 
book  from  its  place,  closed  and  locked  the 
door  of  the  safe,  and,  extinguishing  the  lamp, 
left  the  room. 

In  the  flood  of  unreasoning  race  and 
thwarted  hope  that  surged  about  him,  he 
had  no  definite  plan   regarding  the  object  in 

39 


ihL  mystics 


his  hand.  He  only  knew,  by  the  medium  of 
instinct,  that  through  it  he  could  strike  a 
blow  at  the  uncle  who  had  excluded  him 
from  his  just  inheritance — at  the  crazy  scheme 
by  which  he  had  been  defrauded  of  his  due. 

With  hasty  steps  he  mounted  the  stairs  and 
re-entered  the  bedroom.  To  his  agitated  mind 
it  seemed  but  just  that,  whatever  his  ven- 
geance, it  should  be  accomplished  in  the 
grim,  unconscious  presence  of  the  dead 
man. 

Stepping  into  the  room,  he  paused  and 
looked  about  him,  seeking  some  suggestion. 
As  he  stood  there,  his  eyes,  by  a  natural  proc- 
ess of  inspiration,  fell  upon  the  fire  that 
glowed  and  crackled  in  the  grate;  and  with 
a  sharp,  inarticulate  sound  of  satisfaction  he 
strode  forward  to  the  hearth,  knelt  down,  and 
prepared  for  his  work  of  destruction. 

As  he  crouched  over  the  flames  a  fresh  gale 
swept  inland  from  the  sea,  seizing  the  house 
in  its  fierce  embrace;  and  the  red  tongues  of 

40 


ill     ...  GATHER]  D     l  III      l  IRST    SHEA]     01     LEAVES    INTO 

HIS      I   IN'. I  KS" 


TMC    (vmTICS 


fire  Leaped  up  the  chimney  in  the  instant 
answer  of  element  to  element. 

Instinctively  he  bent  forward,  opened  the 
hook  and  gathered  the  first  sheaf  of  leaves 
into  his  ringers.  Then,  involuntarily,  he 
paused,  as  the  hold  characters  of  the  printed 
words  shot  up  black  and  clear  in  the  fierce 
glow. 

Almost  without  volition  he  read  the  opening 
lines: 

"Out  of  obscurity  will  He  come.  And — having 
proved  Himself — no  man  will  question  Him.  For 
the  Past  lies  in  the  Great  Unknown.  By  the  Scit- 
sym — from  which  none  but  the  Chosen  may  read — 
will  ye  know  Him;  and,  knowing  Him,  ye  will  Imw 
down — Mystics,  Arch-Mystics,  and  Arch-Councillor 
alike.  And  the  World  will  be  His.  For  Fie  will  be 
Power  made  absolute!" 

'For  he  will  be  Power  made  absolute!" 
Something  in  the  six  simple  words  arrested 
Henderson,  suspended  his  thoughts  and 
clucked  his  hand.      By  an  odd  psychological 

4i 


ThC    MySTICS 


process  his  rage  became  chilled,  his  mind 
veered  from  its  point  of  view.  With  a  curious 
stiffness  of  motion  he  drew  away  from  the 
fire — the  book  held  uninjured  in  his  hand. 

"He  will  be  Power  made  absolute!"  he 
repeated,  mechanically,  as  he  rose  slowly  to 
his  feet. 


CHAPTKR    III 

|N  a  certain  night  in  mid- Jan- 
uary, exactly  ten  years  after 
Andrew  Henderson's  death, 
any  one  of  the  multitudinous 
inhabitants  of  London  whom 
business  or  pleasure  carried  to  that  division 
of  Brompton  known  as  Hellier  Crescent, 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  attracted  to 
the  house  distinguished  from  its  fellows  as 
No.  8. 

Outwardly,  this  house  was  not  remarkable. 
It  possessed  the  massive  portico  and  the  im- 
posing frontage  that  lend  to  Hellier  Crescent 
its  air  of  dignified  repose;  but  there  its  sim- 
ilarity to  the  surrounding  dwellings  ended. 
The  basement  sent  forth  no  glow  of  warmth 
and  comfort,  as  did  the  neighboring  base- 
ments;   the  ground-floor  windows  permitted 

43 


THE    My5TICS 


no  ray  of  mellow  light  to  slip  through  the 
chinks  of  shutter  or  curtain.  From  attic  to 
cellar,  the  house  seemed  in  darkness,  the  only 
suggestion  of  occupation  coming  from  the 
occasional  drawing  back  and  forth  of  a  small 
slide  that  guarded  a  monastic-looking  grating 
set  in  the  hall  door. 

And  yet  towards  this  unlighted  and  un- 
friendly dwelling  a  thin  stream  of  people — 
all  on  foot  and  all  evidently  agitated — made 
their  way  continuously  on  that  January  night 
between  the  hours  of  ten  and  eleven.  The 
behavior  of  these  people,  who  differed  widely 
in  outward  characteristics,  was  marked  by  a 
peculiar  fundamental  similarity.  They  all 
entered  the  quiet  precincts  of  the  Crescent 
with  the  same  air  of  subdued  excitement; 
each  moved  softly  and  silently  towards  the 
darkened  house,  and,  mounting  the  steps, 
knocked  once  upon  the  heavy  door.  And 
each  in  turn  stood  patient,  while  the  slide 
was  drawn  back,  and    a    voice   from   within 

44 


TrtE.    (vmTICS 


demanded    the    signal    that    granted    admit- 
tance. 

This  mysterious  gathering  of  forces  had 
continued  for  nearly  an  hour  when  a  cab 
drew  up  sharply  at  the  corner  where  llellier 
Crescent  abuts  upon  St.  George's  Terrace, 
and  a  lady  descended  from  it.  As  she  handed 
his  fare  to  the  cabman,  her  face  and  figure 
were  plainly  visible  in  the  light  of  the  street- 
lamps.  The  former  was  pale  in  coloring, 
delicately  oval  in  shape,  and  illumined  by  a 
pair  of  large  and  unusually  brilliant  eyes; 
the  latter  was  tall,  graceful,  and  clad  in 
black. 

Having  dismissed  her  cab,  the  new-comer 
crossed  St.  George's  Terrace  with  an  appear- 
ance of  haste,  and  entering  Hellier  Crescent, 
immediately  mounted  the  steps  of  No.  8. 

The  last  member  ol  this  strange  procession 
had  disappeared  into  the  house  as  she  reached 
the  door;  bur,  acting  with  apparent  familiar- 
ity, sin   lifted  the  knocker  and  let  it  fall  once. 

45 


ThEl    MySTICS 


For  a  moment  there  was  no  response;  then, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  former  visitors,  the  slide 
was  drawn  back  and  a  beam  of  light  came 
through  the  grating,  to  be  immediately  ob- 
scured by  the  shadowy  suggestion  of  a  face 
with  two  inquiring  eyes. 

"The  Word  ?"  demanded  a  solemn  voice. 

The  new-comer  lifted  her  head. 

"He  shall  be  Power  made  absolute!"  she 
responded  in  a  low  and  slightly  tremulous 
voice;  and  a  moment  later  the  door  opened, 
and  she  stepped  into  the  hall. 

The  scene  inside  the  house  was  curious  in 
the  extreme.  If  there  were  quiet  and  dark- 
ness outside,  a  brilliant  light  and  a  tense, 
contagious  excitement  reigned  within.  The 
large  hall,  lighted  by  tall  lamps,  was  cov- 
ered with  a  thick  black  carpet  into  which 
the  feet  sank  noiselessly,  and  the  walls  and 
ceiling  were  draped  in  the  same  sombre  tint; 
but  at  intervals  of  a  few  feet,  columns  of 
white  marble,  chiselled  into  curious  shapes, 

46 


ThEl   (vmncs 


gleamed  upon  the  observer  from  shadowy 
niches. 

On  ordinary  occasions,  there  was  a  solem- 
nity, a  coldness,  in  this  sombre  vestibule;  but 
to-night  a  strange  electric  activity  seemed  to 
have  been  breathed  upon  the  atmosphere. 
Women  with  flushed  faces  and  men  with 
feverishly  bright  eyes  hurried  to  and  fro  in 
an  irrepressible,  aimless  agitation.  A  blend- 
ing of  dread  and  hysterical  anticipation  was 
stamped  upon  every  face.  People  stopped 
one  another  with  nervous,  unstrung  gesture 
and  odd,  disjointed  sentences. 

As  the  last  comer  entered,  she  paused  for 
a  moment,  uncertain  and  hesitating;  but 
almost  as  sin-  did  so,  a  remarkable-looking 
and  massively  built  man  who  was  standing 
in  the  hall,  disengaged  himself  from  a  group 
of  people,  and,  coming  directly  towards  her, 
took  her  hand. 

"Mrs.  Witcherley!  At  last!"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  full,  emotional  voice.     "  1  looked  for  you 

47 


TrtL    MYSTICS 


among   the   gathering   and    for   a  moment  I 
almost  feared — " 

"That  I  would  fail  ?"  Her  voice  was  still 
tinged  with  agitation;  the  pupils  of  her  large 
eyes  were  distended. 

"No,  I  did  not  mean  that.  But  at  such  a 
moment  we  burn  lest  even  one  of  the  Elect 
be  missing."  He  continued  to  hold  her  hand, 
looking  into  her  face  with  his  prominent  dark 
eyes,  from  which  flashed  and  glowed  an  ex- 
citement that  spread  over  his  whole  heavy 
face. 

"The  night  of  nights!"  he  exclaimed.  'To 
have  lived  to  witness  it!"  His  face  glowed 
with  a  sudden  enthusiasm;  and  freeing  her 
fingers,  he  lifted  up  his  right  hand.  "'He 
shall  walk  into  your  midst — and  sit  above  you 
as  a  King!'"  he  quoted,  in  a  loud  voice. 
Then  remembering  his  companion,  he  low- 
ered his  tone. 

"Everything  is  in  readiness,"  he  added, 
more  soberly.     "The  Precursor  still  unceas- 

48 


ThEL    (Viy5TICS 


ingly  prophesies  the  Advent.  Come  with  me 
into  the  Place.  The  Gathering  is  all  hut 
assembled."  Laying  his  large  hand  upon  her 
arm,  he  led  her  forward  unresistingly  through 
the  groups  of  men  and  women,  and  onward 
down  a  long  corridor  to  where  a  curtain  hid 
an  arched  doorway. 

For  a  moment  they  paused  outside  this 
door,  and  the  man — still  laboring  under  some 
strange  excitement — again  raised  his  hand: 

"Come!"  he  cried.  "And  before  we  leave 
the  Place,  may  the  Hope  of  the  Universe  be 
fulfilled!"  Lifting  the  curtain,  he  ushered 
her  through  the  door. 

The  room  —  or  chapel  —  into  which  they 
stepped  was  large  and  lofty,  covered  on  floor 
and  walls  with  sections  of  marble  alternately 
black  and  white;  overhead  swung  a  huge 
octagonal  symbol  in  jewelled  and  polished 
metal;  and  at  the  end  farthest  from  the  door 
a  haze  of  incense  clouded  what  appeared  to 
be  an  altar. 

49 


JhL  mystics 


A  concourse  of  people  filled  every  corner 
of  this  vast  room;  and  from  the  crouched  or 
upright  figures  rose  a  continuous,  inaudible 
murmuring. 

Still  guiding  his  companion,  the  massively 
built  man  forced  a  way  between  the  closely 
packed  figures.  But,  half-way  up  the  room, 
the  woman  paused  and  glanced  at  him. 

'This  will  do,"  she  whispered.     "Not  any 
nearer,  please.     Not  any  nearer." 

His  only  answer  was  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
her  arm,  and  by  a  persistent  pressure  to  draw 
her  onward  up  the  narrow  aisle.  Reaching 
the  railed-in  space  about  which  the  incense 
hung,  he  paused  in  his  own  turn  and  motion- 
ed her  towards  the  foremost  row  of  seats, 
from  which  the  majority  of  the  gathering 
seemed  to  hold  aloof. 

With  a  quick,  nervous  gesture  she  depre- 
cated the  suggestion.  "No!  No!"  she  mur- 
mured. 'Let  me  sit  behind.  Please  let  me 
sit  behind." 

50 


ThC    (ViySTICS 


Hut  his  fingers  tightened  impressively  upon 
her  arm.  "No,"  he  whispered,  close  to  her 
ear.      'No,  I  want  you  to  be  here.     When  the 

time  arrives,  I  want  the  full  light  to  shine  upon 

>> 
\  <>u. 

After  this  she  demurred  no  more,  but 
moved  obediently  into  the  appointed  seat,  her 
companion  placing  himself  beside  her. 

hi  the  first  moments  of  agitation  and  ner- 
vousness, she  had  scarcely  observed  her  sur- 
roundings; but  now,  as  her  perturbation 
partially  subsided,  she  looked  back  at  the 
n>ws  of  bowed  or  erect  figures,  and  forward 
;it  the  space  about  which  the  incense  clung 
like  a  filmy  veil.  At  a  first  glance  this  veil 
seemed  almost  too  dense  to  penetrate;  but 
as  her  sight  grew  accustomed  to  its  drifting 
whiteness,  she  was  able  to  discern  the  objects 
that  lay  behind. 

In  place  of  the  altar,  usually  prominent  in 
every  religious  building,  there  w.is  a  wide 
semicircular  space,  within  which  stood  a  gold 

5' 


chair  raised  upon  a  dais  and  a  heavy  lectern 
of  symbolic  design  on  which  rested  a  white 
leather  book,  worn  yellow  at  the  edges.  Over 
this  book  a  man  was  poring,  apparently  un- 
conscious of  the  active  interest  he  evoked 
He  was  short  and  thick-set,  with  a  square  jaw, 
a  long  upper  lip,  and  keen  eyes.  Over  a  head 
of  vividly  red  hair,  he  wore  a  round  black  silk 
cap,  and  his  figure  was  enveloped  in  a  flowing 
black  gown. 

From  time  to  time,  as  he  read,  he  lifted  one 
hand  in  rapt  excitement,  while  his  lips  moved 
unceasingly  in  rapid,  inaudible  speech.  At 
last,  with  a  sudden  dramatic  gesture,  he  turn- 
ed from  the  lectern  and  threw  out  both  arms 
towards  the  high  gold  chair. 

"Oh,  empty  throne!  Empty  world!"  he 
cried.     "Be  filled!" 

There  was  something  intense,  something 
electric  in  the  words.  A  startled  cry  broke 
from  the  people,  already  wrought  to  nervous 
tension.      Some   among   them    rose   to   their 

52 


IhL    MySTICS 


feet;  some  glanced  fearfully  behind  them; 
others  cowered  upon  the  ground. 

\iul  then  -in  what  precise  manm  r  no  one 
present  ever  remembered — the  curtain  at  the 
doorway  of  the  chapel  was  swung  sharply 
hack;  and  the  tall,  straight  figure  of  a  man 
clad  all  in  white  moved  slowly  up  rlu-  aisle. 

He  moved  forward  calmly  and  deliberately, 
his  gaze  fixed,  Ins  senses  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  the  many  eyes  and  tongues  from 
winch  frightened  glances  and  frightened,  awe- 
struck words  escaped  .is  he  made  his  solitary, 
impressive  progress. 

Reaching  the  railing,  he  paused  and  lifted 
one  hand  as  if  in  benediction  towards  the  red- 
haired  man  who  still  remained  in  solitary 
occupation  ot  the  Sanctuary. 

At  the  action,  a  gasp  went  up  from  the 
crowded  chapel,  and  even  those  who  still 
crouched  upon  the  floor  ventured  to  raise 
their  heads  and  glance  at  the  spot  where  the 
tall  figure  m  the  white  serge  robe  stood  mo- 

s  53 


The:  mystics 


tionless  and  impressive.  Then  the  whole 
concourse  of  devotees  stirred  in  involuntary 
excitement  as  the  red-haired  man,  with  a  cry 
of  rapture,  rushed  forward  and  prostrated 
himself  at  the  feet  of  the  stranger. 

For  a  space,  that  to  the  watchers  seemed 
interminable,  the  two  central  figures  remained 
rigid;  then  at  last  the  tall  man  stooped,  and 
with  great  dignity  raised  the  other. 

As  he  gained  his  feet,  it  was  obvious  that 
the  smaller  man  was  deeply  agitated.  His 
lips  were  trembling  with  some  strange  emo- 
tion, and  it  seemed  that  he  could  scarcely 
command  his  gestures.  After  a  protracted 
moment  of  struggle,  however,  he  appeared 
to  regain  his  self-control;  for  with  a  slightly 
tremulous  movement  he  stepped  forward,  laid 
his  hands  on  the  low  railing  and  glanced  at 
the  assembled  people. 

"Mystics!"  he  began.  "Chosen  Ones! 
Out  of  the  Unseen  I  have  come  to  prophesy 
to  you— I,  an  obscure  servant  and  follower 

54 


the.  mystics 


of  the  Mighty.  For  fifteen  days  have  I 
spoken— telling  you  that  which  was  at  hand. 
\nd  now,  behold  I  am  justified!"  He  paused 
and  indicated  the  tall  white  figure  still  stand- 
ing motionless,  with  face  averted  from  the 
congregation. 

'What  have  I  told  you!"  he  continued,  his 
voice  rising.  "Have  I  not  quoted  from  the 
sacred  Scitsym  -which  until  this  hour  I  have 
never  been  permitted  to  look  upon  ?  Have  I 
not  ton  told  the  coming  of  this  man — the  gar- 
ments he  would  wear  —  the  Sign  upon  his 
person  ?  And  have  I  not  done  these  things 
by  a  power  outside  myself?"  Again  his  voice 
rose;  and  the  congregation  thrilled  in  re- 
sponse. 

"Y(  u  have  listened  to  me— you  have  mar- 
velled —hut  in  vour  Souls  doubt  has  held 
sway.  Now  is  the  moment  of  justification' 
It  is  not  meet  that  the  Great  One  should 
plead  for  recognition;  it  is  for  you  —  the 
Watchers — to  see  and  claim  him.     Master!" 

55 


TrtEL    MySTICS 


he  cried,  suddenly.  "Master,  show  them  the 
Sign!" 

A  hush  like  the  hush  of  night  fell  upon  the 
people;  and  in  this  curious  and  impressive 
lull  the  white-robed  man  turned  slowly  round 
facing  the  congregation. 

His  appearance  was  arresting  and  remark- 
able, though  it  possessed  nothing  of  beauty. 
He  had  a  tall  and  powerful  figure,  a  strong 
and  determined  face;  his  bare  head  was 
covered  with  close-cut  black  hair;  his  hard, 
firm  lips  were  clean-shaven,  and  his  gray  eyes 
looked  across  the  chapel  with  a  peculiar 
sombre  fire. 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  surveying 
the  faces  clustered  before  him;  then  he  raised 
his  left  hand. 

"My  People!"  he  began,  in  a  deep,  slow 
voice.  "We  live  in  an  age  when  doubt 
roams  through  the  world  like  a  beast  of 
prey.  I  ask  not  for  the  faith  that  accepts 
blindly;    but  in  this  most  sacred  Scitsym — " 

5* 


ACROSS    THE    PROPHETS    BREAST,    IN    MARKS    OF    A    CRl  I  I 
LACERATION,    RAN     I  HI     SYMBOLIC     0CTAGONA1 

FIG!  Rl     "i      i  in      \n  si  IC    SECT" 


TnEL    My5TICS 


he  pointed  to  the  white  hook  upon  the  lec- 
tern—"it  is  written  that,  by  a  certain  secret 
Sign,  the  Arch-Mysties  will  recognize  Him 
for  whom  they  have  waited.  I  call  upon  the 
Vrch-Mystics  to  declare  whether  or  no  I  bear 
upon  my  person  that  secret  Sign!"  He  paused 
for  a  moment;  then  with  a  grave,  calm  gesture 
he  unfastened  his  robe  where  it  crossed  his 
bre.ist  and  threw  it  open. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  intense  curiosity,  as 
all  involuntarily  leaned  forward;  an  audible 
gasp  <>t  awe  and  shrinking,  as  all  instinctively 
drew  back  before  the  sight  that  confronted 
them.  Across  the  Prophet's  breast,  in  marks 
of  a  cruel  laceration,  ran  the  symbolic  octago- 
nal figure  of  the  Mystic  sect. 

He  stood  dignified  and  unmoved  until  the 
tremor  of  emotion  had  subsided.  Then  his 
glance  travelled  over  the  foremost  row  of 
seats. 

"Conn  forth!"  he  commanded,  authorita- 
tively.     "Come  forth  and  acknowledge  me!" 

57 


The  mystics 


A&d" 


His  eyes  moved  slowly  from  seat  to  seat — 
pausing  momentarily  on  the  pale,  absorbed 
face  of  the  woman  in  black.  But  scarcely 
had  his  glance  rested  upon  her  than  the 
heavily  built  man  who  sat  beside  her,  rose 
agitatedly  and  stepped  forward  to  the  sanct- 
uary. For  a  space  he  stood  staring  at  the 
scarred  skin  from  which  the  symbol  of  his 
creed  stood  forth  as  if  miraculously  branded; 
then  he  turned  to  the  congregation,  his  promi- 
nent eyes  burning,  his  heavy  face  working 
with  emotion. 

"  Brethren,"  he  said,  inarticulately.  "Breth- 
ren, it  is  indeed  the  Sign!" 

But  the  Prophet  remained  motionless. 

"Where  are  the  other  five  ?"  he  asked,  in  a 
level  voice. 

Almost  simultaneously  four  men  rose  from 
the  congregation  and  came  forward.  One 
was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  Slavonic  type  of 
face,  wild  eyes,  and  a  long,  fair  beard;  an- 
other was  young — scarcely  more  than  seven 

58 


the:   iviysTics 


&&#&tg>'6©&Sg$A&d'ft^&ii 

and  twenty  with  the  free  carriage,  fiery 
glance,  and  swarthy  complexion  of  the  no- 
madic races  of  southeastern  Europe;  the 
third  was  a  small,  frail  man  of  fifty,  with  a 
nervous  system  painfully  in  advance  of  his 
physical  strength;  while  the  fourth  was  a 
true  mystic — impassioned,  enthusiastic,  de- 
tached. One  by  one  these  nun  advanced, 
examined  the  scars,  and  turning  to  the  peo- 
ple, confirmed  the  words  of  their  fellow. 
Then,  amid  a  tremulous  hush,  the  last  of 
the  six — the  Arch-Councillor  himself  -was 
led  up  the  aisle. 

For  an  instant  the  glimmering  of  scmie  new 
feeling  crossed  the  Prophet's  face,  as  his 
glance-  re-ste-d  on  the'  old  man  who  slowly 
approached  with  feeble  steps,  bent  back, 
and  anxious,  sightless  eyes.  But,  as  qu'ek- 
ly  as  it  had  come',  the  expression  passed, 
and  he  stepped  forward  for  the  old  man's 
touch. 

With   a   (]uivering  gesture  the  Arch-Coun- 

59 


The:  ivmTics 

cillor  lifted  his  hand  and  nervously  passed  his 
fingers  over  the  scars;  then,  drawing  the 
Prophet  down,  he  touched  his  face.  For  a 
long  moment  of  suspense  his  fingers  lingered 
over  the  features;  then  they  fell  again  upon 
the  scars.  And  an  instant  later  he  sank  upon 
his  knees. 

'It  is  indeed  made  manifest!"  he  cried,  in 
a  loud,  unsteady  voice.  "He  shall  sit  above 
you  as  upon  a  Throne!" 

The  words  were  magical.  The  whole  con- 
course of  people  swayed  forward  hysterically. 
Men  pressed  upward  towards  the  railing; 
women  wept. 

And  through  it  all  the  Prophet  stood  un- 
moved. He  stood  like  a  rock  against  which 
the  clamorous  human  sea  heat  wildly.  With 
a  quiet  movement  he  drew  his  robe  across  his 
breast,  hiding  the  unsightly  scars,  but  other- 
wise he  made  no  motion.  At  last  the  red- 
haired  man  who  had  first  claimed  him,  stepped 
forward  to  his  side. 

60 


Th£    (vmTlCS 

"Speak  to  them,  Master!"  he  said. 

The  words  roused  the  Prophet.  With  a 
calm  gesture  he  raised  his  head,  his  eyes 
confronting  the  mass  of  strained,  excited 
faces  lifted  to  Ins. 

'My  People,"  he  said  again,  in  his  deep 
voice.      'What  will  you  do  with  me?" 

The  response  was  instant. 

'The  Throne!  The  Throne!"  The  crowd 
surged  forward  in  a  wave,  then  receded  as  the 
tide  recedes;  and  the  old  Arch-Councillor 
stepped  feehlv  into  the  Sanctuary  and  extend- 
ed his  hands  to  the  Prophet. 

It  was  a  moment  of  breathless  awe.  The 
tall  woman,  who  until  that  moment  had  re- 
mained seated,  involuntarily  rose  to  her 
feet. 

She   saw  the   figure  of  the   Prophet  move 

grandly  across  the  Sanctuary  in  tin-  wake  of 

the  old  hhnd  man;    she  saw  him  halt  for  an 

infinitesimal  space  at  the  foot  of  the  throne; 

he  saw  him  calmly  and  decisively  mount  the 

6i 


ThE.    IvmTICS 


steps  of  the  dais  and  seat  himself  in  the  golden 
chair.  Then,  prompted  by  an  overwhelming 
impulse,  she  yielded  to  the  spirit  of  the  mo- 
ment and  dropped  to  her  knees. 


CHAPTER  IV 

jHREE  li< 'ins  later,  when  the 
curious  rite  of  acknowledg- 
-  ment  had  been  completed  and 
the  concourse  of  zealots  had  de- 
parted from  Hellier  Crescent, 
the  first  night  in  his  new  kingdom  opened 
for  the  Prophet.  As  the  clocks  of  Brompton 
were  striking  two,  the  six  Arch  -  Mystics— - 
each  of  whom  possessed  rooms  m  a  remote 
portion  of  the  house — Hngeringly  and  fear- 
fully hade  him  good-night,  and  left  him  alone 
with  the  Precursor  in  the  apartments  that  for 
marly  fifty  years  had  been  kept  swept,  and 
garnished  in  expectation  of  Ins  advent. 

\part  from  their  suggestion  of  the  mystic;  1 
and   fantastic,  these   rooms  possessed   an   in- 
trinsic interest  of  their  own.      Ami  some  con 
sciousness  of  this  interest  appeared  to  be  at 

63 


THE!    MV5TICS 


H>»&&fr©4§S&A&cr**H 

work  within  the  Prophet's  mind;  for  scarcely 
had  he  and  his  companion  been  assured  of 
privacy,  than  he  rose  from  the  massive  ivory 
chair  which  had  been  apportioned  to  him  and 
from  which  he  had  made  his  second  and 
private  justification  of  his  claims;  and  very 
slowly  and  deliberately  began  a  circuit  of  the 
chamber. 

With  engrossed  attention  he  passed  from 
one  to  another  of  the  rare  and  costly  objects 
that  formed  the  furniture  of  the  place;  while, 
from  the  ebony  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  his  red-haired  companion  watched  him 
with  vigilant  eyes. 

Still  moving  with  unruffled  deliberation, 
he  completed  his  tour  of  the  apartment;  then 
a  remarkable — a  startling  thing  took  place. 
He  wheeled  round,  laid  his  hands  heavily  on 
the  Precursor's  shoulders,  and  looking  closely 
into  his  face,  broke  into  speech. 

"Well  ?"  he  demanded,  intensely.  "Well  ? 
Well  ?     What  have  you  to  say  ?" 

64 


ThE.    MySTICS 


At  first  the  red-haired  man  sat  watching 
him,  mute  and  motionless;  then  with  a  sud- 
denness equal  to  his  own,  he  released  him- 
self, leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  and  silent- 
ly uncorked  a  gold  flask  that  stood  upon 
the  table  before  him.  Lifting  it  high,  he 
poured  some  wine  into  two  glass  goblets, 
and  without  a  word  handed  one  to  the 
white-robed  Prophet,  and  himself  picked  up 
the  other. 

'John,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "you  were 
magnificent!  Let  me  give  you  a  toast? 
Power!     Power  made  Absolute!" 

With  a  grave  gesture  the  Prophet  extended 
his  hand,  and  their  glasses  clinked. 

'Power  made  Absolute!"  he  responded,  in 
a  low,  deep  voice. 

In  silence  they  drank  the  toast;  but,  as  he 
replaced  his  glass  upon  the  table,  the  Prophet 
shook  of}'  his  gravity,  and  turned  again  to  his 
companion. 

"Now!"  he  exclaimed.     "Now!    Out  with 

65 


The:  wysTics 


it  all!  How  much  of  this  has  been  native 
adroitness,  and  how  much  unbelievable  good- 
fortune  ?  Out  with  it!  I'm  hungry  and 
thirsty  for  the  truth." 

For  answer  the  Precursor  slowly  lifted  the 
gold  flask  and  replenished  his  own  glass. 
'Truth  in  a  golden  flask!  But,  to  throw  a 
sop  to  your  curiosity,  it  was  a  matter  of  native 
genius  engineered  by  Providence.  I  don't 
mind  admitting  that  when  I  stood  on  the 
doorstep  of  this  house  fifteen  nights  ago  and 
knocked  the  mystic  knock,  I  felt  like  a  man 
embarking  on  a  coffin-ship."  He  stopped  to 
drain  his  glass. 

The  Prophet  took  a  step  forward. 

"And  then  ?"  he  said,  eagerly.     "Then  r" 

The  other  waved  his  empty  glass. 

"Oh,  there  entered  the  native  genius  of 
Terence  Dominick  Devereaux!  Under  that 
tremendous  escort  I  stormed  the  citadel — " 

The  Prophet  smiled.  "And  the  Mystic 
ears,  I  have  no  doubt." 

66 


the:   wysTics 


For  a  third  time  the  Precursor  filled  his 
glass. 

'The  tongue  is  mightier — and  a  good  deal 
more  portable — than  either  the  pen  or  the 
sword,  John,"  he  said,  sagely.  "Paving 
your  way  w;th  words  has  been  an  unrecog- 
nized work  of  art.  But  how  about  yourself? 
I  have  my  own  curiosity."  He  wheeled 
round  in  his  seat  and  looked  into  his  com- 
panion's face. 

The  Prophet  looked  away. 

"Oh,  I  had  my  qualms,  too!"  he  said,  slow- 
ly. "Just  for  a  moment  the  world  seemed 
to   tremble,   when    the    old    Arch -Councillor 

>ped  forward  and  put  his  hands  over  my 
face.  It  swept  me  off  my  feet — swept  me 
back  ten  years.  It  was  like  a  vision  in  a  crys- 
tal— if  such  a  tiling  could  exist.  I  saw  the 
whole  past  scene.  The  bare  mom  the  old 
dead  man — myself;  tin-  overwhelming  wish  to 
avenge  my  wrongs,  and  the  sudden  suggestion 
that  turned  the  wish  cold.      I  saw    the  loner, 

67 


the:  wysTics 


bleak  night  in  which  I  completed  the  colossal 
task  of  copying  the  Scitsym  line  for  line;  I 
saw  the  gray  morning  steal  in  across  the  room 
as  I  closed  the  book,  returned  it  to  its  safe  and 
replaced  the  key  on  my  uncle's  neck  in  prep- 
aration for  the  arrival  of  the  Arch-Council- 
lor. It  all  passed  before  my  mind,  and  then 
in  a  flash  was  gone.  I  ceased  to  be  John 
Henderson." 

The  Precursor  glanced  quickly  towards  the 
door. 

"Avoid  that  name.  Habits  grow — and  so 
do  suspicions.  Your  probation  has  been  too 
long  and  too  hard  to  permit  us  to  run  risks. 
Now  that  you've  stepped  into  your  king- 
dom— "     He  made  an  expressive  gesture. 

The  Prophet  laughed  shortly,  then  sud- 
denly turned  grave  again. 

"You  are  right!"  he  said.  "Only  a  man 
with  a  light  conscience  can  skate  on  thin  ice. 
To  return  to  our  original  subject,  what  about 
the  inner  workings  of  this  odd  game  ?     It  is 

68 


IhL    (viy5TIC5 


so  curious  to  have  lived  for  years  on  theory, 
and  suddenly  to  come  face  to  face  with  prac- 
tice. I  tell  you  I'm  starving  for  facts."  He- 
stepped  forward  quickly  and  dropped  into  a 
chair  that  faced  his  companion's. 

"Out  with  it  all!  To  begin,  who  is  the 
master-spirit?  You  know  what  I  mean. 
The  master-spirit  in  the  true  sense.  Poor 
old  blind  Aran  doesn't  stand  for  much." 

The  Precursor  looked  meditatively  at  his 
empty  glass. 

"No,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "You  touch 
truth  there!  Michael  Arian  is  the  cipher; 
Bale-Corphew's  the  meaning.  Balc-Corphew 
is  an  interesting  man,  John — I  had  almost 
said  a  dangerous  man — " 

The  Prophet's  lip  curled  slightly. 

"  Dangerous!" 

"Yes;  dangerous  in  a  sense.  In  the  sense 
that  a  personality  always  is  dangerous. 
Among  the  six  Arch-Mystics  there  is,  to  my 
thinking,   only    one    man,    and    he    interests 

69 


THL    MYSTICS 


me.      He   interests   me,   does   Horatio   Bale- 
Co  rphew!" 

The  Prophet  leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"I  think  I  catch  your  meaning,"  he  said. 
"Something  of  the  same  idea  occurred  to  me 
when  he  rose  from  his  seat  to-night.  While 
we  spied  upon  them  in  the  last  six  months, 
he  always  struck  me  as  curiously  un-English, 
with  that  sleek  exterior  and  those  flashing 
eyes  of  his.  But  in  the  chapel  to-night  he  was 
almost  aggressively  alien.  When  he  touched 
my  arm  I  could  literally  feel  him  bristle." 

The  other  nodded. 

"You've  said  it!"  he  cried.  "Horatio 
bristles!  His  whole  queer  soul  is  in  this  busi- 
ness— every  fibre  of  it.  He  attempts  no  divi- 
sion of  allegiance — except,  perhaps,  in  the 
matter  of  the  heart — " 

The  Prophet  glanced  up  and  smiled. 

"The  heart?  Do  my  faithful  Watchers 
permit  themselves  hearts  ?  The  Scitsym 
makes  no  provision  for  such  frail  organs." 

70 


tmc  [vmncs 


The  Precursor  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  we  Elect  are  by  no  means  free  from 
little  saving  weaknesses!  That's  where  we 
become  dramatic.  You  can't  have  effect 
without  contrast.  Horatio,  for  instance,  is 
instinctively  dramatic." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes.  Oh  yes!  I  know  what  I'm  saying. 
I've  studied  them  all.  More  than  once,  when 
my  Soul  has  been  communing  with  your 
August  Spirit,  I  have  watched  Horatio's 
dramatic  contrast  from  the  corner  of  my 
eyes." 

Again  the  Prophet  smiled. 

"The  contrast  frequents  the  chapel  then  ?" 

"Frequents?  Undoubtedly.  Horatio  has 
literally  swept  her  into  the  fold.  She  was 
here  to-night  to  bend  the  knee  to  yon." 

A  look  of  recollection  crossed  the  Prophet's 
eyes. 

'To-night?"   he  said.     "Not  the  woman 
who  sat  beside  him?     The  woman  with  the 

7' 


THE.    MYSTICS 


big  eyes  ?     She  and  Bale-Corphew!    The  idea 
is  absurd!" 

"Undeniable,  nevertheless.  I  have  de- 
duced the  story.  The  lady  is  a  widow — no 
relations — too  much  freedom — vague  aspira- 
tions after  the  ideal.  She  has  sounded  society 
and  found  it  too  shallow;  sounded  philosophy 
and  found  it  too  deep;  and  upon  her  horizon 
of  desires  and  disappointments  has  loomed 
the  colossal  presence  of  Bale-Corphew — en- 
thusiast, mystic,  leader  of  a  fascinatingly 
unorthodox  sect.  What  is  the  result  ?  The 
lady — too  feminine  to  be  truly  modern,  too 
modern  to  be  wholly  womanly — is  viewing 
life  through  new  glasses,  and  by  their  medium 
seeing  Horatio  invested  with  a  halo  otherwise 
invisible. " 

The  Prophet  remained  quiet  and  silent; 
then  he  rose  slowly  from  his  seat  and  walked 
round  the  table.  "Devereaux,"  he  said, 
laconically,  "only  the  Prophet  is  going  to 
wear  a  halo  here." 

72 


Trtt    My^TICS 


The  Precursor's  sharply  marked,  expres- 
sive eyebrows  went  up  in  quick  comment. 

"Can  even  a  latter-day  Prophet  afford 
autocracy  ?" 

For  a  space  the  Prophet  made  no  response; 
then  he  took  a  step  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
impressively  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

"Devereaux,"  he  said,  in  a  new  voice — a 
voice  that  unconsciously  held  something  of 
the  command  that  had  marked  it  in  tin 
chapel  "the  Prophet  of  the  Mystics  has 
come  to  rule.  He  has  not  come  to  follow 
the  laws  that  others  —  that  men  like  Bale- 
Corphew — have  seen  fit  to  make.  He  has 
come  to  be  a  law  unto  himself!" 


CHAPTER  V 

|T  is  astonishing  in  how  short 
a  space  of  time  a  man  of 
vigorous  character  can  make 
his  personality  felt.  On  the 
night  of  his  mysterious  ad- 
vent, the  Prophet  had  found  his  people  in  a 
condition  of  mental  chaos — as  liable  to  re- 
pudiate as  to  accept  the  seeker  for  their 
confidence;  but  before  one  month  had  passed 
he  had,  by  domination  of  will,  so  moulded 
this  neurotic  mass  of  humanity  that  his  own 
position  had  gradually  and  insensibly  merged 
from  suppliant  into  that  of  autocrat.  With- 
out a  murmur  of  doubt  or  dissension  the 
Mystics  had  proclaimed  him  their  king. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  thirty  he  sat  alone 
in  his  room— the  room  in  which  he  and  the 
red-haired  Precursor  had  held  their  private 

74 


The:  mysTics 


council  on  the  night  of  his  coming.  The 
heavy  purple  curtains  that  shielded  the  win- 
dows were  partly  drawn,  throwing  a  suhdued, 
almost  a  devotional,  light  over  the  wide,  im- 
posing apartment  and  across  the  ebony  table, 
on  which  rested  the  sacred  Scitsym,  surround- 
ed by  an  array  of  smaller  and  more  ancient 
books,  several  rolls  of  parchment,  a  number 
of  quill  pens,  and  a  dish  of  ink.  It  was  at 
this  table  that  the  Prophet  sat;  he  wore  the 
monastic  white  robe  that  he  always  affected 
in  presence  of  his  people,  his  arms  were 
folded,  and  his  face  looked  calm  and  grave, 
as  though  he  appreciated  the  moment's 
solitude. 

The  solitude,  however,  was  net  destined  to 
endure.  The  soft  booming  of  a  gong  pres- 
ently roused  him  to  attention,  and  a  moment 
later  the  door  of  the  apartment  opened  and 
an  ascetic-looking  man,  whose  duty  and  priv- 
ilege it  was  to  wait  upon  him,  entered  defer- 
entiall) . 

7S 


The  ivmTics 

44>4'(£>i©4£34A4.d'*.*4  4 


He  stood  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude  of 
profound  abasement;  then  he  stepped  for- 
ward and  stood  beside  the  table. 

"Master,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "The 
newest  among  us  would  speak  with  you!" 

The  Prophet  raised  his  head  and  a  gleam 
of  interest  crossed  his  eyes;  but  almost  im- 
mediately he  subdued  the  look. 

"I  am  willing,"  he  replied,  unemotionally, 
in  the  usual  formula.  Then  he  glanced  at 
his  attendant.  "After  this,  the  audiences  for 
the  day  are  over,"  he  added. 

The  man  bowed,  and  with  awe  -  struck, 
deference  moved  silently  from  the  room, 
almost  immediately  reappearing,  to  usher 
in  the  devotee,  and  with  the  same  conscious 
air  of  mystery,  to  retire,  closing  the  heavy 
door. 

For  a  moment  the  new-comer  stood  just 
inside  the  threshold.  As  on  the  night  of  the 
Prophet's  coming,  she  wore  a  long,  black  dress 
that  accentuated  her  height  and  grace,  and 

76 


IhL    mystics 


brought  into  prominence  the  clear  pallor  of 
her  skin  and  the  remarkable  luminous  brill- 
iance of  her  eyes.  A  struggle  between  super- 
stitious dread  and  human  curiosity  was  dis- 
tinctly visible  in  her  expression  as  she  stood 
uncertain  of  her  position,  doubtful  as  to  her 
first  move. 

The  Prophet  glanced  at  her,  and  the 
shadow  of  a  smile  touched  his  lips. 

"Have  no  fear,"  he  said.  "Come  for- 
ward!" 

The  strong,  steady  voice  gave  her  courage, 
and  with  slightly  agitated  haste  she  stepped 
towards  the  table. 

The  Prophet  gravely  motioned  her  to  a 
seat  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  attention. 
Upon  each  of  the  thirty  mornings  he  had 
sat  in  this  same  position  in  his  ivory  chair, 
while,  one  after  another,  the  members  of 
the  sect  had  claimed  audience  with  him. 
Morning  after  morning  he  had  exhibited  the 
same  grave,  aloof  interest   -his  hands  clasped, 

77 


tmc  ivmncs 


his  eyes  upon  the  Scitsym — while  the  fear- 
ful, the  fanatical,  the  hysterical  had  poured 
forth  their  tales  of  struggle  or  aspiration. 
But  now,  on  this  last  morning,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  new  suggestion,  a  new  impression 
in  what  had  grown  to  be  routine.  This  last 
aspirant  for  spiritual  light  was  neither  fanati- 
cal nor  hysterical,  was  scarcely  even  imbued 
with  fear.  Something  within  his  brain  re- 
sponded to  the  idea,  to  the  reassuring  human 
curiosity  that  gleamed  in  her  eyes.  He  found 
himself  waiting  for  her  first  words  with  an 
impatience  that  no  other  member  of  the  con- 
gregation had  aroused. 

But  the  wait  was  long — disconcertingly  long. 
The  aspirant  glanced  uncertainly  about  the 
room,  as  if  unwilling  or  unable  to  break  into 
speech;  then  at  last  she  raised  her  head,  and, 
with  an  effort,  met  the  Prophet's  eyes. 

"I'm  terribly  nervous!"  she  said,  in  an 
irresistibly  feminine  voice. 

The  effect  upon  her  hearer  was  instantane- 

78 


the:  wysTics 


u 


ous.  The  distant  and  spiritual  aloofness,  so 
easy  to  assume  in  the  presence  of  the  credu- 
lous, became  suddenly  a  matter  of  impossi- 
bility. With  a  quiet  dignity  that  had  more 
of  masculine  protectiveness  than  of  mystical 
inspiration  he  turned  to  her  afresh. 

"Have    no    fear!"    he     answered,    gently. 

My  only  desire  is  to  help  you.  1 »  II  me 
everything  that  is  in  your  mind." 

She  leaned  forward  quickly.  'You — you 
are  most  kind — "  she  began.  Then  again  she 
halted. 

But  he  took  no  notice  of  her  embarrassment. 

"Why  have  you  never  come  before?"  he 
asked.  "  Mad  you  no  doubts  to  be  set  at 
rest  ?"  He  spoke  so  quietly  that  her  nervous- 
ness forsook  her,  and  with  a  swift  impulse 
she  glanced  up  ;it  him. 

"I — I  think  I  was  afraid,"  shr  said,  can- 
didly. "You  see,  I  am  not  exactly  one  of 
the  others — " 

"You  did  not  quite  believe  that  the  One 

79 


ThL    IvmTICS 


you  had  waited  for  had  really  come  ?"  His 
voice  was  low  and  tinged  with  some  inscruta- 
ble meaning. 

"Oh  no!  No;  it  was  not  that.  Before 
you  came,  I  confess  I  was  sceptical;  I  con- 
fess I  did  not  believe  that  any  one  would 
come,  that  there  was  any  truth  —  any  real 
meaning — in  the  sect.  But  then — when  you 
did  come — " 

The  Prophet  lifted  his  head. 

'When  I  did  come  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

'The  whole  thing  was  different — " 

"The  whole  thing  was  different?"  he  re- 
peated, slowly  and  meditatively.  By  a  curi- 
ous process  of  suggestion  and  recollection, 
something  of  his  own  experiences  in  the  realm 
of  mental  upheaval  rose  with  her  words.  He 
studied  the  pale  face  and  brilliant  eyes  with 
a  fresh  and  more  intimate  interest. 

'The  whole  thing  was  different?"  he  said 
once  more,  in  his  slow,  deep  voice. 

The  warm  color  flooded  her  face.     "Yes," 

80 


THt:  (vmncs 


&*»&<g>&©&53*A4cfifrn 

she  admitted.  "  Yes^  You  seemed  the  one 
real  person — the  one  sane  thing  in  the  whole 
ceremony.  I  felt — I  knew  that  you  were — 
strong."  She  paused,  alarmed  at  her  own 
timidity;  and  again  their  eyes  met. 

"And  why  have  you  never  come  to  me 
before?"  He  had  no  particular  meaning  in 
the  question;  he  was  only  conscious  of  an 
inexplicable  wish  to  prolong  the  interview. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  scarcely  know." 
Again  she  spoke  quickly  and  nervously.  "  I 
have  come  every  night  to  hear  you  speak — 
I  have  loved  to  hear  you  speak.  But — but 
to  be  alone  with  you — "  She  paused,  ex- 
pressively. 'It  is  all  so  strange  —  so  ex- 
traordinary. It  doesn't  seem  to  belong  to  the 
present  day — "  She  looked  up  at  him  in 
appealing  perplexity. 

"And  why  did  you  come  now  ?" 

'Why  ?  Oh,  because — because  I  could  not 
stay  away." 

For  the  first  time  the  Prophet  was  conscious 

Si 


Tht    MYSTICS 


U#<fxgxfe@&S^A4cf&<f<U 

of  a  tremor  of  discomfiture;  for  the  first  time 
the  spectacle  of  his  fraud,  as  seen  from  a  point 
of  view  other  than  his  own,  touched  him  un- 
pleasantly. He  moved  slightly  in  his  massive 
chair. 

"In  this  life,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden,  al- 
most incontinent  assumption  of  his  Prophetic 
manner,  "we  must  be  ever  careful  to  distin- 
guish the  Wine  from  the  Vessel  that  contains 
it.  I  endeavor,  with  all  the  Power  I  am  pos- 
sessed of,  to  impress  upon  my  People  that  I 
have  come,  not  to  be  the  Way,  but  to  show 
the  Way!  To  teach  you  all  that  what  you  seek 
in  me,  is  in  each  one  of  you.  Every  man  is 
his  own  Prophet,  if  he  but  knew  it!"  As  he 
spoke  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  the  Scitsym, 
and  the  hard,  inscrutable  look  that  so  domi- 
nated his  followers  descended  upon  his  face. 
As  he  reached  the  last  words,  he  glanced  again 
at  his  companion,  but  as  his  eyes  rested  on 
her  face  he  paused  disconcerted.  She  was 
gazing  at  him  with   a   candid,   spontaneous 

82 


ThE.    (vmTICS 


admiration  infinitely  more  human  and  in- 
finitely more  irresistible  than  the  neurotic 
adoration  that  was  daily  lavished  on  him. 
With  an  odd,  inexplicable  sense  of  guilt,  he 
rose  quickly  from  his  seat. 

"Do  not  forget — do  not  allow  yourself  to 
forget  that  this  is  my  teaching,"  he  said. 
"That  you  have  each  within  yourselves  the 
thing  you  demand  in  me.  Look  for  it  within 
yourselves!     Rely  upon  yourselves!" 

As  he  ceased,  she  also  rose.  She  was  pale, 
and  trembled  slightly. 

"But  if  one  cannot  follow  that  teaching?" 
she  asked.  '  If  one  longs  to  rely  upon  some 
one  else  ?    If  one  cannot  rely  upon  one's  self?" 

The  Prophet  made  no  answer.  He  stood 
with  one  hand  resting  on  the  table,  his  gaze 
fixed  upon  the  bonk. 

Emboldened  by  his  silence,  she  approached 
him  by  a  step. 

'I  think  I  could  believe — "  she  murmured. 
"I  think  I  could  believe — anything,  if  I  might 


Trt£    MYSTICS 


learn  it  from  you.'*  She  paused  pleadingly; 
then,  as  he  still  stood  unresponsive,  the  color 
rushed  again  into  her  face. 

"I — I  have  been  presumptuous,"  she  said. 
"I  have  offended  you." 

Something  in  her  tone,  in  her  charming 
unaffected  humilitv  stung  him.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  career  as  Prophet,  the  blood  surged 
hotly  and  painfully  into  his  face. 

"Do  not  say  that!"  he  began,  impulsively; 
then  he  checked  himself.  "  I  am  here  to 
teach  my  People,"  he  added.  "All  my  Peo- 
ple— without  exception." 

For  one  moment  she  studied  his  face  half 
doubtfully;  then  at  last  her  own  emotions 
conquered  her  doubt. 

"Then  I  may  come  again?" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once;  and  when  at  last 
his  words  did  come,  his  voice  was  unusually 
irresolute  and  low. 

'You  may  come — at  any  time,"  he  said, 
without  meeting  her  eyes. 

84 


CHAPTER  VI 


O  it  came  about  that  the  ser- 
pent of  misgiving  entered  into 
the  Prophet's  paradise.  With 
Enid  Witcherley's  words,  the 
realization  of  his  true  position 
had  been  unpleasantly  suggested  to  him,  and 
the  grain  of  doubt  had  been  scattered  over 
the  banquet  he  had  set  himself  to  enjoy. 
It  was  one  thing  to  fool  nun  who  yearned  to 
be  fooled  —even  to  fool  women  whose  pecu- 
liarities set  them  apart  from  their  sex;  but 
it  was  indisputably  another  matter  to  dupe 
a  young  and  confiding  girl,  who  came  with 
all  the  fascination  of  modern  doubt,  counter- 
balanced by  the  charm  of  feminine  credulity. 
long  after  she  left  him,  he  had  paced  up 
.iii-l  down  the  room  in  perplexity  of  spirit, 
until  at  last,  with  a  sudden  contempt  for  his 


the:  tvmTics 


-         -"  I  .Mil       — 1 

own  weakness,  he  had  turned  to  where  the 
white  binding  of  the  Scitsym  caught  the  sub- 
dued light.  The  sight  of  the  book  had  nerved 
him,  as  it  never  failed  to  do;  but  for  all  his 
regained  firmness,  the  sense  of  uneasy  shame 
had  remained  with  him  during  the  day;  and 
that  night,  when  he  addressed  his  people,  he 
had  instinctively  guarded  his  glance  from 
resting  on  the  seats  that  fronted  the  Sanct- 
uary. 

But  now  that  first  interview  was  past  by 
three  weeks,  and  Enid's  daily  visits  to  the 
great  room  where  he  gave  audience  to  the 
congregation  had  become  one  of  the  recog- 
nized events  of  the  twenty-four  hours.  The 
sense  of  shame  returned  periodically;  but  on 
each  renewal  of  the  feeling  he  salved  his  con- 
science more  and  more  successfully  with  the 
assurance  that  to  her,  as  to  himself,  the 
Mystics  were  in  reality  nothing  but  the  prod- 
ucts of  a  neurotic  age — mere  hysterical  dab- 
blers in  the  truths  of  the  universe.     She  was 

86 


IhL    MYSTICS 

too  delicately  feminine,  he  told  himself  with 
growing  conviction,  too  intelligent  and  self- 
controlled,  to  be  more  than  temporarily  at- 
tracted to  any  such  exotic  creed.  She  might 
toy  with  it  for  a  while,  but  the  day  must 
inevitably  dawn  when  common-sense  and  the 
need  of  surer  things  would  send  her  back  into 
the  broad  channel  of  simple,  satisfying  Chris- 
tianity. For  a  space  this  unnatural  state  of 
things  would  last;  for  a  space  their  curious 
companionship  would  continue — their  long, 
intimate  talks  would  make  life  something  new 
and  wonderful;  then —  But  there,  for  some 
unexplained  reason,  speculation  invariably 
stopped. 

So  things  stood  on  the  fiftieth  morning 
after  her  first  coming.  The  stream  of  sup- 
pliants for  his  favor  was  all  but  exhausted, 
and  he  awaited  to  give  the  last  audience  of 
the  day. 

After  the  moment  of  quiet  and  solitude 
that    always    separated    the    interviews,    the 

87 


TttE.    MySTICS 


sonorous  gong  announced  the  last  visitor;  the 
silent,  ascetic  attendant  threw  open  the  door 
and  Enid  entered. 

This  time  she  displayed  none  of  the  hesi- 
tancy that  had  marked  her  early  manner. 
She  came  towards  the  table  with  quick,  as- 
sured steps,  her  face  bright  with  anticipation. 

As  she  approached,  the  Prophet  rose.  It 
was  remarkable  that  he  no  longer  retained 
his  sitting  position  when  she  entered  the 
room,  as  was  his  custom  with  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  sect.  Involuntarily  and  almost 
unconsciously  he  extended  to  her  the  ordinary 
courtesies  that  man  instinctively  offers  to 
woman. 

As  she  reached  the  table,  she  glanced  up 
at  him,  and  something  of  the  pleasure  died 
out  of  her  face. 

'You  look  tired,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  smiled. 

"Does  that  disappoint  you  ?" 

His  tone  confused  her. 

88 


THE.    (vmTICS 


"Oh  no!  No!"  Then  she  colored  shVhrlv 
and  glanced  at  him  again.  "Why  do  you  ask  :" 

'  Because  it  is  the  way  of  humanity  to  refuse 
any  common  weakness  to  its  leaders — spirit- 
ual or  temporal." 

Again  a  wave  of  color  crossed  her  skin. 
"Hut  surely—" 

"Surely  what  :" 

She  glanced  away;  then,  seeming  to  gather 
up  her  courage,  she  looked  back  at  him. 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  slowly,  "that  some 
people  are  so  strong  that  they  may  be  allowed 
to  have  anything—" 

"Even  weaknesses — "  Once  more  he- 
smiled.  It  was  significant  how,  gradually 
and  indisputably,  the  tone  of  teacher  had 
dropped  out  of  his  conversation.  Neither 
could  have  told  the  date  on  which  the  change 
had  occurred— perhaps  neither  was  conscious 
that  it  had  even  taken  place.  But  the  fact 
remained  that,  with  her,  he  no  longer  fell 
compelled   to  hold   aloof;   that,  with   her,  he 

89 


TrtC   wysTits 


had  discarded  the  allegorical  manner  of 
speech,  and  had  begun  to  show  himself  as  he 
naturally  was. 

"Even  weaknesses  ?"  he  said  again,  as  she 
made  no  attempt  to  answer. 

At  the  words  her  eyes  once  more  met  his. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  new  resolution — 
"yes,  even  weaknesses.  I  often  think  that 
it  is  because  you  are  so — so  human  that  you 
hold  us  as  you  do.  It  seems  right  that  a 
Prophet  should  belong  to  the  people  he  has 
come  to  teach.  All  the  prophets  of  the 
world  have  essentially  belonged  to  their  own 
times.  If  you  had  sat  upon  the  Throne  all 
day  and  communed  with  your  Soul,  I  should 
have  been  very  much  afraid  of  you;  but  I 
should  never  have  believed  in  you  as  I  do 
now,  when  you  talk  to  me  and  advise  me  and 
help  me  like — like  a  friend."  Her  voice  trem- 
bled slightly. 

A  peculiar  expression  crossed  the  Prophet's 
face. 

oo 


THL    My5TICS 


"So  I  seem  a — friend  ?" 

"More  than  a  friend.  I  can  never  tell  you 
what  you  have  been  to  me  what  you  have 
done  for  me.  I  have  never  been  so  happy 
— so  satisfied  in  my  life,  as  in  these  last 
three  weeks.  Every  disappointment  and  dis- 
satisfaction seems  to  have  slipped  away;  I 
seem  to  have  been  living  in  some  calm,  beau- 
tiful, restful  atmosphere — "  She  paused,  her 
face  as  well  as  her  voice  tinged  with  a  subtle 
excitement. 

'It  may  be  very  selfish,  but  I  wish  that 
these  days  could  go  on  forever.  I  kn<  w 
that,  for  you,  they  are  onlv  a  probation; 
that  you  must  crave  for  the  moment  when, 
having  taught  us  everything,  you  will  go 
out  into  the  world  and  teach  the  Unbe- 
lievers. I  know  all  that,  and  I  know  it  is 
only  right,  but  —but  I   hate  to  think  of  it!" 

A  sudden  break  came  in  her  voice. 

"  You    hate    to    think    that    all    this    must 

end  ?" 

9« 


ThC   wysTics 


Again  their  eyes  met;  but,  as  though  the 
contact  of  glances  embarrassed  her,  Enid 
looked  away. 

'Yes,  I  do  hate  it.  Do  you  despise  me 
for  being  so  selfish — so  jealous  of  those  other 
people  who  will  take  our  place  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  Prophet  made  no  reply. 
In  the  dim  light  of  the  room,  the  muscles  of 
his  hard  face  looked  set;  his  strong  hands 
were  clasped. 

"Do  you  despise  me  ?"  she  asked  again. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  any  one — you 
least  of  all,"  he  answered,  without  looking  at 
her. 

At  the  subdued  tone,  the  unexpected  words, 
she  turned  to  him  apprehensively. 

"  You  are  angry  with  me  ?" 

"Indeed,  no." 

'Then  what  is  it  ?  What  have  I  done — or 
said  ?" 

He  remained  silent. 

In  her  sudden  distress  she  leaned  forward 

92 


ThE.    (vmTlCS 


in  her  chair,  looking  into  his  face  with  new 
solicitude. 

"  I  know — I  feel  that  I  have  displeased  you 
Won't  you  tell  me  what  I  have  done  ?'* 

As  she  put  the  question,  she  laid  one  gloved 
hand  upon  the  table;  and  though  the  Proph- 
et's eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Scitsym,  he  was 
conscious  in  every  fibre  of  the  appeal  the  un- 
studied gestuie  made — as  he  was  poignantly 
conscious  of  the  clear  eyes,  the  soft  dark  hair, 
the  questioning  upturned  face. 

For  an  interminable  time  the  silence  re- 
mained unbroken;  at  hist,  with.  a  little  sound 
of  fresh  d'stress,  Enid  bent  still  nearer. 

"Oh,  1  understand!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
understand!  You  think  1  have  taken  ad- 
vantage ot  your  goodness.  \  ou  think  I  have 
imagined  that,  because  you  are  kind  and 
patient  and  tolerant,  I  might  look  upon  you 
as — as  a  man."  As  she  said  the  word  she 
paused,  frightened  by  her  own  timidity. 

But  as  suddenly  the  Prophet  wheeled  round 

93 


I 


THL    My5TICS 


and  laid  his  fingers  over  hers.  The  pressure 
of  his  hand  was  like  steel,  the  expression  of 
his  face  was  altered  and  disturbed. 

"If  you  only  knew — "  he  said,  sharply — "if 
you  only  knew  how  I  have  longed  to  hear  you 
say  just  that  one  word  man!"  He  paused 
almost  triumphantly,  his  eyes  searching  her 
frightened  face,  his  fingers  gripping  hers. 

For  an  instant  she  sat  petrified  and  fas- 
cinated; then  a  faint  sound  of  alarm  escaped 
her,  and  she  turned  towards  the  door. 

Without  the  formality  of  the  announcing 
gong,  two  men  had  entered  the  room,  and 
stood  silent  spectators  of  the  tableau.  One 
was  Devereaux,  the  Precursor;  the  other  was 
Horatio  Bale-Corphew. 

For  one  embarrassed  moment  all  four  look- 
ed at  each  other;  then  the  Precursor  hastened 
to  save  the  situation.  He  made  a  long,  pro- 
found obeisance,  and  stepped  deferentially  to 
the  table. 

"Your   pardon,    Master!"    he   murmured. 

94 


iht  (vmncs 


H#6<g>&©&iS)&AfeCf&^n 

"We  knew  not  that  the  immutable  Soul  was 
speaking  from  within  you,  calling  one  among 
us  towards  the  Light!"  He  glanced  quickly 
over  his  shoulder  to  where  the  massive  form 
and  agitated  face  of  Bale  -  C'orphew  was 
framed  in  the  doorway. 

At  his  peremptory  look  the  Arch-Mystic 
seemed  to  gather  himself  together.  Stepping 
forward,  he  made  a  slightly  tardy  reverence. 

"Master,"  he  said,  huskily,  "what  the  Pre- 
cursor tells  you  is  the  truth.  Seeing  the 
threshold  unguarded,  we  concluded  that  the 
audiences  for  the  day  were  over."  I  lis  promi- 
nent hiown  eyes  were  filled  with  conflicting 
expressions  as  he  turned  them  on  the  Prophet. 

But  the  Prophet  remained  unmoved.  The 
hard  look  had  returned  to  his  face,  the  stern 
rigidity  to  his  figure.  Very  slowly  he  released 
the  hand  that  still  trembled  under  his  own. 

"The  time  of  the  Prophet  belongs  to  his 
People,"  he  said,  with  dignity.  "He  holds 
audience    whenever,  wherever,  and   however 

95 


The    MYSTICS 


it  is  expedient.     Speak,   my  son!     In  what 
can  I  serve  you  ?" 

Bale-Corphew  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
Whatever  he  had  come  to  say  appeared  to 
have  escaped  his  mind.  For  a  while  inaction 
reigned  in  the  room;  then,  with  a  pale  face 
and  nervous  manner,  Enid  rose,  bowed  to  the 
Prophet,  and  moved  noiselessly  to  the  door. 

All  three  watched  her  until  she  had  disap- 
peared; then  Bale-Corphew  found  voice  again. 

"Master,"  he  murmured,  hurriedly,  "with 
your  permission,  I  also  would  leave  the  Pres- 
ence;'' and  with  a  perturbed  gesture,  he  too 
bowed  and  passed  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VII 

'N  a  crisp,  cold  afternoon,  one 
week  after  her  interview  with 
the  Prophet,  Enid  Witcherley 
sat  in  the  drawing-room  of  her 
London  flat.  The  early  por- 
tion of  the  day  had  been  pleasantly  warmed 
and  brightened  by  the  pale  March  sunshine; 
but  at  three  o'clock  a  searching  wind  had 
begun  to  blow  across  the  city  from  the  east; 
and  now,  as  the  small  gold  clock  on  her 
bureau  chimed  the  hour  of  five,  she  rose 
from  the  couch  where  she  had  been  sitting, 
and,  crossing  the  room  with  a  little  shiver, 
drew  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  pressed  the 
electric  bell. 

As  the  maid  appeared,  in  answer  to  her 
summons,  she  gave  her  order  without  looking 
round. 


97 


TMC    MySTICS 


"Tea,  Norris!"  she  said,  in  an  unusually 
curt  and  laconic  voice. 

For  a  considerable  time  after  the  maid's 
departure  she  sat  motionless,  her  hands 
stretched  out  towards  the  blazing  logs,  her 
large  eyes  absently  watching  the  fire-light  on 
her  many  and  beautiful  rings.  When  the 
woman  reappeared,  and,  noiselessly  arrang- 
ing the  tea-table,  moved  it  to  her  side,  she 
scarcely  glanced  up;  and  to  the  most  super- 
ficial observer  it  would  have  been  patent 
that  her  own  thoughts  and  speculations  fully 
absorbed  her  mind. 

She  retained  her  contemplative  attitude 
after  the  servant  had  withdrawn  for  the 
second  time,  and  it  is  doubtful  how  long  she 
would  have  remained  sunk  in  apparent 
lethargy  had  not  the  unexpected  sound  of 
the  hall-door  bell  caused  her  to  start  into  an 
upright  position  with  a  little  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  impatience. 

As  she  sat  listening  with  nervous  intent- 

98 


Tht    MYSTICS 


ness,  the  door  opened,  and  once  more  Norris 
appeared.  After  a  second's  hesitation  she 
crossed  to  her  mistress. 

"There's  a  gentleman  at  the  door,  ma'am," 
she  said,  deprecatingly. 

Enid  looked  up,  a  frown  still  darkening  her 
forehead. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  not  at  home." 

"I  know,  ma'am,  but — "  Norris  hesitated. 

4  Hut  what  ?  I  told  you  I  was  not  to  be 
disturbed.  I  wont  be  disturbed."  With 
a  gesture  plainly  indicative  of  high-strung 
nerves,  she  turned  to  the  table  and  poured 
herself  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

The  maid  glanced  behind  her  towards 
the    door.      "But    the    gentleman    won't   go, 


ma'am — ■" 


'Won't  go!"  In  her  surprise  Enid  laid 
down  the  cup  she  had  been  about  to  raise  to 
her  lips.       "  \\  ho  is  he  ?"  she  demanded. 

Norris     looked     down.     "I     don't     know, 
ma'am.     I  told  him  you  were  not  at  home, 

99 


IhL   ivmncs 


but  he  won't  go.     He's  the  sort  of  gentleman 
who  won't  take  no  for  an  answer." 

"I  don't  understand  you.  Who  is  he? 
What  is  he  like  ?"  Unconsciously  and  in- 
voluntarily Enid's  tone  quickened.  Some- 
thing in  the  woman's  words — something 
undefined  and  yet  suggestive — stirred  and 
agitated  her. 

Norris  seemed  to  choose  her  words.  "Well, 
ma'am,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "he's  very 
tall — and  not  like  any  other  gentleman  that 
comes  here.  I  can't  rightly  explain  it,  miss, 
he  seems  used  to  having  his  own  way — " 

As  she  halted,  uncertain  how  to  choose  her 
words,  Enid  rose  nervously.  She  could  not 
have  defined  her  emotions,  but  some  feeling 
at  once  vague  and  portentous  was  working 
in  her  mind. 

"Did  he  give  no  name  r" 

"No,  ma'am.  I  was  to  say  that  he  was 
some  one  that  must  be  seen.  He'd  give  no 
name." 

TOO 


ThC   (vmncs 


For  a  further  instant  Enid  was  silent,  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  her  own  unsteady  pulses; 
then  suddenly  she  turned  almost  angrily  upon 
the  servant. 

"Show  him  in!"  she  cried.  "Show  him  in 
at   once!      Don't  keep   him   standing   at   the 


door." 

In  some  confusion  Norn's  turned  and 
walked  across  the  room.  At  the  doorway 
she  paused  and  looked  hack. 

"Will  you  have  the  lights  on,  ma'am  ?" 

'No.  No;  the  fire  makes  light  enough. 
I  like  twilight  and  a  fire.  Don't  stand  wait- 
mg! 

The  woman  departed;  and  for  a  space  that 
seemed  to  her  interminable,  Enid  stood  beside 
the  fireplace,  motionless  with  hope,  dread, 
and  an  almost  uncontrollable  nervousness. 
At  last,  as  in  a  dream,  she  saw  the  door  open 
and  the  tall,  characteristic  figure  of  the  Proph- 
et move  into  the  room. 

She  was  vaguely  aware  that  lie  halted  for 
8  ioi 


the.  Mysncs 

a  moment,  as  if  undecided  as  to  his  action, 
while  Norris  retired,  softly  closing  the  door. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  leap  of  the  heart,  she 
was  conscious  that  he  was  coming  towards 
her  across  the  shadowed  room. 

He  moved  straight  forward  until  he  was 
close  beside  her;  and,  with  one  of  his  de- 
cisive, imperious  gestures,  he  put  out  both 
hands  and  caught  hers. 

"It  was  a  case  of  Mohammed  and  the 
mountain!"  he  said,  in  his  grave  voice. 
"You  wouldn't  come  to  me;  I  had  to  come 
to  you." 

No  sound  escaped  her.  She  stood  before 
him  mutely,  her  face  paling  and  flushing, 
her  hands  fluttering  in  his. 

There  was  a  slight  pause;  and  again  he 
bent  towards  her. 

"Why  have  you  stayed  away?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  spellbound  by 
her  emotion;  then,  making  a  sudden  effort, 
she   looked    up.     "I — I    was    afraid."     Her 

102 


voice  was  so  low  and  shaken  that  the  words 
were  a  mere  whisper. 

"Afraid?     Afraid  of  what  r" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"Of  what?  OfBale-Corphew?"  !  Ie  gave 
a  slight,  sarcastic  laugh. 

"No!"   She  looked  up  sharply.    "Oh  no!" 

"Then  of  what?  Of  me?"  His  voice 
suddenly  sank,  and  the  pressure  of  his  fin- 
gers tightened. 

"No!  Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!" 
With  a  tremulous  gesture  she  tried  to  with- 
draw her  hands. 

At  the  movement,  he  suddenly  drew  her 
towards  him.  "Tell  me!"  he  said.  '1  want 
to  know.      I  must  know!" 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered  the 
room,  her  glance  rested  fully  on  his  face. 
The  light  was  uncertain,  but  as  her  gaze  con- 
centrated  itself,  a  new  look  —a  look  of  wonder 
and  alarm  —sprang  across  her  eyes.  In  the 
seven  days  since  the}'  had  spoken  together,  a 

I03 


Tttt    MYSTICS 


change  had  fallen  on  him.  Some  alteration 
she  could  not  define  had  grown  into  his  ex- 
pression; the  cold  mastery  of  himself  and 
others  was  still  visible;  but  a  new  emotion 
had  insensibly  been  created  —  something 
powerful  and  even  dominant — for  which  she 
could  find  no  name.  With  a  sharp,  instinc- 
tive alarm,  her  lips  parted. 

'What   is   it?"   she   said,    apprehensively. 
'Why   are   you   here?     The   time   has    not 
come  for  you  to  go  out  into  the  world  ?" 

A  faintly  ironic  smile  flitted  across  his  lips. 

"Surely,  if  one  is  a  Prophet,  one  can  alter 
even  prophecies." 

He  said  the  words  deliberately,  looking 
down  into  her  face. 

The  tone,  the  intentional  flippancy  of  the 
words,  came  to  her  with  a  shock.  It  was  as 
if,  by  considered  action,  he  had  set  about 
jeopardizing  his  own  dignity.  A  chill  of 
undefined  apprehension  blew  across  her  mind 
like  a  cold  wind. 

104 


Trt£    MYSTICS 


U#4<£>&©4£s<&A&cf&,t'<H 


"I — I  don't  understand,"  sin-  stammered. 
"How  did  you  get  here?  How  did  you  get 
away  r 

Again  his  keen  eyes  searched  hers. 

"As  for  getting  away,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"when  a  Prophet  lias  a  Precursor,  he  should 
be  able  to  arrange  these  things.  Five  o'clock 
is  a  dull  hour  at  Hellier  Crescent.  The 
Arch-Mvstics  are  perusing  the  Scitsym;  the 
Precursor  is  guarding  the  sacred  threshold  of 
the  Prophet;  the  Prophet  is — presumably — 
communing  with  his  Soul.  The  routine  of 
this  evening  differs  in  no  way  from  the  routine 
of  any  other  evening — except  that  the  Pre- 
cursor is  rather  more  than  usually  vigilant  in 
his  watch."  Again  the  forced  flippanev  was 
apparent;  and  to  Enid,  staring  at  him  with 
wide,  perplexed  eyes,  there  was  something 
inexplicable  and  alarming  in  this  new  and 
unfamiliar  attitude.  With  a  tremoi  <>t  fore- 
boding, her  glance  travelled  <>w  r  his  face. 

"lias    anything    happened?"    shu    asked. 

105 


THE!    (vmTICS 


"Have  the  People  done  wrong  ?  Have  you — 
have  you  been  called  elsewhere  ?"  At  the  last 
dread  possibility  her  voice  faltered. 

But  the  Prophet  stood  cold  and  almost 
rigid.  At  last,  by  an  immense  effort,  he 
seemed  to  gather  himself  together  for  some 
tremendous  end. 

"Enid,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  don't  know 
how  much  you  know  of  life,  but  I  presume 
you  know  very  little.  I  presume  that — and 
shall  act  on  the  presumption.  I  shall  not  ex- 
pect—even ask — any  leniency  of  you. 

"I  came  here  this  evening  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  alter  your  opinion  of  me  so 
effectually  that  nothing  hereafter  can  rein- 
state me  in  your  mind."  He  spoke  slowly 
and  deliberately,  without  tremor  or  falter. 
Whatever  of  struggle  lay  behind  his  words, 
it  lay  with  the  past.  It  was  evident  as  he 
stood  there  in  the  pretty,  luxurious  room,  that 
he  possessed  a  purpose,  and  that  he  held 
to  it  without  thought  of  a  retrograde  step. 

1 06 


TrtC   (vmncs 


"I  have  come  to  make  a  confession/9  he 
said,  quietly.  "Not  because  I  believe  in  the 
habit  of  unburdening  one's  conscience,  hut 
because  there  is  something  you  have  a  right 
to  know — " 

'I — ?     A  right  to  know ?"    Her  lips  paled. 

"Yes.  A  right  to  know."  With  a  sudden 
access  of  feeling  he  dropped  her  hands  and 
turned  towards  the  window,  where  the  last 
glimmer  of  the  wintry  twilight  showed  through 
the  soft  silk  curtains. 

"I  am  putting  myself  in  your  hands,"  he 
said,  steaddy.  'I  am  jeopardizing  myself  ut- 
terly by  what  I  am  going  to  say;  but  it  seems 
to  me  the  only  way  by  which  T  can  make — 
well,  can  patch  up  some  poor  amends — 

"  1  may  be  presumptuous,  but  1  believe — 
I  think  -that  I  have  stood  for  something  in 
your  eyes."  He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
But  in  the  mingled  dusk  and  firelight  only 
the  pale  outline  of  her  face  was  visible. 

'Enid!"  he  cried,  with  sudden  resolution, 

107 


tme:   mystics 


A&Cf 


"it  must  be  faced.  It  must  be  said.  I'm 
not  what  you  think  me.  I'm  a  fraud — a  lie 
—an  impostor.  No  more  a  Prophet— no  more 
inspired  than  you— or  Bale-Corphew!"  He 
stopped  abruptly  and  drew  a  slow,  deep 
breath. 

The  pause  that  followed  was  long  and 
strained.  In  the  grip  of  strong  emotions, 
each  stood  rigid,  striving  vainly  to  read  the 
other's  face.  At  last,  goaded  by  the  silence, 
he  spoke  again. 

"You  have  done  this!"  he  cried.  'You 
have  compelled  me  to  tell  you!  I  came  to 
these  people;  I  duped  them — and  gloried  in 
duping  them.  I  despised  them,  understood 
them,  traded  on  them  without  a  scruple. 
Then  you  came.  You  came — and  the  scheme 
was  shattered.  The  whole  thing,  that  had 
bubbled  and  sparkled,  became  suddenly  like 
flat  champagne.  That  is  a  common  simile, 
but  it  is  descriptive.  The  acting  of  an  actor 
depends  upon  his  audience.     While  my  audi- 

108 


Thd   mysTics 


ence  was  composed  of  fools,  I  fooled  them; 
hut  when  you  came — you  with  your  scepti- 
cism, your  curiosity,  your  feminine  dependen- 
cy— I  lost  my  cue.  I  became  conscious  of  the 
footlights  and  the  make-up."  Again  he  paused; 
and  again  he  endeavored  to  read  her  face. 
His  manner  was  still  restrained,  hut  below 
his  calm  were  the  stirrings  of  a  deep  agitation. 
There  was  tense  anxiety  in  the  set  of  his  lips, 
an  inordinate  anticipation  in  the  keenness  of 
his  eyes.  For  a  space  he  stood  waiting;  then, 
as  she  made  no  effort  towards  response,  he 
stepped  to  her  side. 

"Say  something!"  he  exclaimed.  "Speak 
to  me!     I  am  waiting  for  you  to  speak." 

With  a  low,  frightened  murmur  she  drew 
back,  extending  her  hands,  as  if  to  ward  him 
off. 

llie  sound  and  the  movement  stung  him 
to  action.  With  a  speed  that  might  have 
be<  n  construed  into  fear,  he  came  still  nean  r. 

"Enid!"  he  said,     "laud!" 


109 


THE    (V)y5TICS 

But  again  she  retreated  involuntarily. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  do  it?"  she  exclaimed, 
suddenly,  in  a  faint,  shaken  voice.  "Oh, 
why  did  you  do  it  ?     Why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

For  an  instant  her  tone  and  her  manner 
daunted  him;  then  he  straightened  his  body 
and  raised  his  head. 

"I  did  it  for  what  is  reckoned  the  most 
sordid  motive  in  the  world,"  he  said,  in  a 
level  voice.     "I  did  it  for  money!" 

"  For  money  ?"  With  a  scared  movement 
she  turned  upon  him,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  made  his  revelation,  he  saw  her 
pale,  alarmed,  incredulous  face  in  the  full 
light  of  the  fire'. 

'I  was  wronged!"  he  said,  sharply.  "These 
people  had  defrauded  me.  I  wanted  what 
was  justly  mine." 

'Wanted  ?"  The  word  formed  itself  al- 
most inarticulately. 

'Yes;  wanted.  Wanted  with  all  my  might. 
I  have  worked,  schemed,  suffered  for  this  in 

1 10 


Th£    (vmTICS 


ways  you  could  never  imagine.  I  thought 
myself  invincible.  I  believed  that  if  the  devil 
himself  stood  in  my  way  it  would  not  deti  r 
me.  And  now  you — a  frail  girl  have  wreck- 
ed the  scheme!"  He  paused  again,  leaning 
towards  her  in  sudden  unconscious  appeal 
for  comprehension. 

"I  won't  say  it  hasn't  been  a  struggle  to 
come  to  you  like  this — to  make  my  confes- 
sion. It  has.  My  conscience  and  I  have 
been  struggling  night  and  day.  I  have  held 
out  to  the  last.  It  was  only  to-day  this 
very  day  when  I  woke  to  face  the  crisis  of 
my  plans,  that  I  knew  I  was  beaten— knew 
the  tight  was  over. 

"Ami  do  vou  understand  why  this  has 
happened  ?  Do  you  know  why  I  am  going 
away  as  empty-handed  as  I  earner  It  is  be- 
cause I  have  seen  you     because  1  love  you — " 

lb  pur  our  his  hands.  Hut  as  his  fingers 
touched  her,  she  rhrusr  him  away,  freeing 
herself  with   herce  resentment. 

1 1 1 


ThC    MYSTICS 


"Don't!  don't!  don't!"  she  cried.  "You 
call  yourself  an  impostor — You  are  worse 
than  that.     Much  worse.     You  are  a  thief!" 

He  stepped  back  as  though  she  had 
struck  him,  and  his  hands  dropped  to  his 
sides. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  thief!"  she  said  again, 
hysterically;  "a  thief!" 

The  repetition  of  the  word  goaded  him. 

"Wait!     Let  me  defend  myself!" 

But  with  a  broken  sound  of  protest  she 
flung  her  hands  over  her  ears. 

"No!  no!  no!"  she  cried,  vehemently. 
"There  is  no  defence  to  make.  There  is  no 
defence.  You  may  leave  the  money  of  the 
sect,  but  you  have  stolen  things  that  can 
never  be  replaced.  Faith— hopes — ideals — " 
Her  voice  failed  her. 

"Mistaken  faith— mistaken  ideals — "  He 
caught  her  wrists,  drawing  her  hands  down- 
ward. 

But  again  she  freed  herself  and  confronted 

112 


ThE.    (vmTICS 


him  with  blazing  eyes  and  a  face  marred  by 
tears  and  emotion. 

"Nothing  is  mistaken  that  lifts  one  up — 
that  helps  one  to  live.     Oh,  you  don't  know 
what  you  have  done!     You  don't  know!     I 
thought  you  so  noble — so  great — and  now — " 

"Now  I  am  condemned  unheard." 

"Unheard  ?  Do  you  think  words  could 
change  anything?  There  is  only  one  thing 
I  wish  for  now — never,  never  to  see  you  again 
as  long  as  either  of  us  liv(  !"  With  each  word 
her  voice  rose,  and  on  the  last  it  broke  with 
an  excited  sob. 

While  she  had  been  speaking  the  Prophet's 
face  had  become  very  pale.  1  [e  turned  to  hei 
now  with  a  manner  that  was  preternaturally 
quiet. 

'Very  well!"  he  said.  'I  understand! 
But  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  trouble.  All 
our  arrangements  are  made — have  been  made 
for  months.  We  attend  the  Gathering  to- 
night;  and  afterwards,  when  lh  liter  Crescent 

"3 


The  mysTics 


4*  +  t&*©*SSiA4cri  +  ll 

is  quiet,  we  go — as  unobtrusively  as  we  came. 
You  see  I  give  you  the  key  to  our  plans;  you 
are  free  to  frustrate  them,  if  you  think  fit.  I 
don't  believe  I  had  any  real  hope  of  merciful 
judgment  when  I  came  here — women  are  not 
merciful  when  they  are  robbed  of  their  illu- 
sions. But  I  confess  I  hoped  for  justice.  I 
thought  that  you  might  hate  me — " 

"Hate  you  ?"  she  cried.  "Hate  you  ?  We 
only  hate  what  we  respect.  I  don't  hate  you. 
I  only  despise  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  want 
you  to  go  before  I  despise  myself  as  well!" 
Her  own  cruel  disillusioning — her  own  un- 
bearable sense  of  loss — swept  over  her  afresh; 
her  voice  rose  again,  and  again  broke  hysteri- 
cally. With  an  uncontrolled  movement  of 
grief  and  mortification  she  turned  away  from 
him  and  threw  herself  upon  a  couch,  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillows. 

For  several  minutes  she  cried  tempestu- 
ously; then  through  the  storm  of  her  angry 
tears  she  caught  the  sound  of  a  closing  door. 

114 


tmc  (vmncs 


With   a  start  she    sat    up   and   looked    about 
her. 

The  faint  relic  of  daylight  still  showed 
through  the  curtains  of  the  window;  the  fire- 
light still  played  pleasantly  on  the  untouched 
tea-table  and  the  fragile  furniture;  but  the 
room  was  empty.     The  Prophet  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


HEN  she  realized  this  fact, 
Enid  rose  from  her  seat  with 
a  murmur  of  dismay.  In  her 
sharply  feminine  sense  of  loss, 
she  took  one  involuntary  step 
towards  the  door;  but  almost  as  the  step  was 
taken,  her  anger,  her  shattered  faith  assailed 
her  anew,  and,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears  she 
turned  and  flung  herself  back  upon  the  couch. 
For  a  long  time  she  lay  with  her  face 
among  the  pillows;  then,  at  last,  as  her  angry 
sobs  died  out  and  the  violence  of  her  grief 
subsided,  she  sat  up,  wiped  her  eyes,  and 
glanced  at  her  dripping  handkerchief. 

At  sight  of  the  handkerchief — a  mere  wisp 
of  wet  cambric — her  sense  of  injury  stung  her 
afresh,  and  once  more  her  lips  began  to 
quiver;  but  fate  had  decided  against  further 

116 


"Willi    \    iKisil    BURS!    OF    I  I   VRS,   SHI     M  KM D    AND  FLUNG 
III  ksi  II     UPON     I  ii  l     COUCH" 


ihc  (vmncs 


tears.  Before  her  grief  had  gathered  force, 
the  hell  of  the  hall-door  sounded  once  more 
long  and  loudly;  and  hard  upon  the  sound 
the  door  of  the  room  opened. 

With  a  start  of  confusion  she  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  turned  to  confront  Norris,  standing 
at  a  discreet  distance,  with  an  apologetic 
manner  and  downcast  eyes. 

"Mr.  Bale  -  Corphew,  ma'am,"  she  mur- 
mured, as  Enid  looked  at  her.  'I  told  him 
you  were  not  at  home;  but  he  said  he  would 
wait  till  whenever  he  could  see  you,  it  didn't 
matter  how  long." 

With  a  little  cry  of  dismay  and  annoyance, 
Enid  put  her  hands  to  her  disordered  hair. 

"Oh,  how  stupid  of  you!"  she  cried, 
tremulously.  "You  know  I  can't  see  him. 
You  know  I  won't  see  him.  Tell  him  I'm 
out — ill — anything  you  ran  think  of — "  But 
her  voice  suddenly  faltered,  and  her  words 
ended  in  a  gasp,  as  shr  glanced  horn  the 
servant  to  the  doer,  which  had  abruptly  re- 

9  II7 


THE.    MYSTICS 

opened,  displaying  the  face  and  figure  of 
Bale-Corphew  himself. 

Without  hesitation  he  had  entered  the  room; 
and  without  hesitation  he  walked  straight 
towards  her. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  know 
this  must  seem  unpardonable;  but  the  occa- 
sion is  without  precedent.  May  I  speak  with 
you  alone  ?" 

In  the  moment  of  his  entry,  and  during  his 
hurried  greeting,  Enid  had  mastered  her 
agitation.  She  looked  at  him  now  with  an 
attempt  at  calmness. 

"Certainly,  if  you  have  anything  to  say." 

In  the  excitement  under  which  he  was 
obviously  laboring,  he  did  not  observe  the 
coldness  of  the  granted  permission.  He  wait- 
ed with  ill-concealed  impatience  until  Norris 
had  withdrawn,  then  he  turned  to  her  afresh. 

"Mrs.  Witcherley!"  he  cried,  "you  see  be- 
fore you  an  outraged  man!" 

He  made  the  announcement   fiercely  and 

118 


THf.    My5TIC$ 


U»4(g>&©4S3aA&cT6<»n 

theatrically;  but,  to  any  ear,  it  would  have 
been  evident  that,  below  the  instinctive  de- 
sire for  dramatic  effect,  his  voice  trembled 
with  genuine  agitation— his  speech  was  charg- 
ed with  violent  feeling.  To  Enid,  watching 
him  with  surprise  and  curiosity,  it  was  patent 
at  a  glance  that  some  circumstance,  strange 
in  its  occurrence  or  vital  in  its  issue,  had 
shaken  him  to  the  base  of  his  emotional  nat- 
ure. And  as  she  looked  at  him  her  own 
coldness,  her  own  humiliation,  suddenly  for- 
sook her. 

'What    is    it?"    she    cried,    involuntarily. 
"What  is  it  ?     Something  has  happened  r" 

For  one  moment  his  answer  was  delayed 

—held    back    by  the   torrent   of  words   that 

rushed  to  his  lips;   then,  at  last,  as  his  tongue 

freed  itself,  he  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  fierce 

gesture. 

"Outrage!  Outrage  and  sacrilege!"  he 
cried.  "We  have  been  duped  —deceived — 
tricked.     We,  the  Chosen — the  Elect!" 

119 


TrtC    MY5TICS 


"Duped?  Deceived?"  She  echoed  the 
words,  faintly.  "What  do  you  mean  ?  What 
has  happened  ?" 

"Everything!  Everything!"  Again hethrew 
out  his  hands.  "This  man  that  we  have 
called  Prophet — this  man  that  we  have  bent 
the  knee  to — he  is  nothing;  nothing — "  Once 
more  emotion  overpowered  his  words. 

"Nothing?"  Enid's  voice  was  indistinct, 
her  tongue  dry. 

" — Nothing  but  an  impostor!  An  impostor! 
A  thief!" 

He  spoke  loudly — even  violently.  To  his 
listener  it  seemed  that  his  voice  rang  out, 
filling  the  room,  filling  the  street  outside, 
filling  the  whole  world.  As  she  had  done  in 
the  Prophet's  presence,  she  raised  her  hands 
and  pressed  them  over  her  ears.  But,  even 
through  her  fingers,  his  tones  came  loud  and 
penetrating. 

"An  impostor!"  he  cried,  again.  "A  liar! 
A  blasphemer!" 

120 


the:  mystics 


U<t4&&mS£&A&Cf&<f6& 

Her  hands  dropped  from  her  face. 

"Stop!  Stop!"  she  cried,  weakly. 

But  he  was  beyond  appeal. 

'You  must  hear!"  he  cried.  "It  is  ordain- 
ed. You  have  been  the  unwitting  instrument 
by  which  the  man  has  fallen." 

'I?  I?  The  instrument?"  She  stared 
at  him  with  wide  eyes  and  a  white  face. 

'Yes,  you!"  He  stepped  to  her  side. 
'Without  you,  suspicion  would  never  have 
been  aroused.  Without  you,  he  might  have 
carried  out  his  base  designs.  It  was  the 
power  of  the  Unseen  that  guided  me  on  the 
day  I  entered  the  Presence  Room  and  found 
you  alone  with  him."  He  spoke  hurriedly 
and  disjointedly,  but  as  the  last  word  left  his 
lips  another  expression  crossed  his  face,  as 
though  a  new  suggestion  passed  through  his 
mind. 

"Did  you  see  nothing  strange  in  that  Au- 
dience r"  he  demanded.  "Did  you  set-  noth- 
ing strange  in  the  fact  that  he — a  Prophet  of 

121 


tme:  (vjysncs 


Sublime  Mysteries — should  hold  your  hand, 
as  any  man  of  the  earth  might  hold  it  ?"  He 
bent  still  closer,  jealousy  and  suspicion  dark- 
ening his  face. 

Enid  glanced  at  him  fearfully.  "No!  No!" 
she  said,  sharply.  "I — saw  nothing  strange. 
He  was  the  Prophet." 

Bale-Corphew's  face  relaxed. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  believe  you. 
But,  if  you  were  blind,  /  saw."  He  paused 
and  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  face. 
Cold  as  the  day  was,  drops  of  perspiration 
stood  upon  his  forehead. 

"I  saw.  And  from  that  hour  the  man  was 
lost." 

"Lost?" 

"Yes,  lost."  He  laughed  excitedly;  and 
to  Enid  the  laugh  sounded  singularly  un- 
pleasant, sharp,  and  cruel.  "From  that  day 
we  have  watched  him— we,  the  Six.  We 
have  watched  him  and  his  friend — the  dog 
who  has  dared  to  desecrate  the  name  of  Pre- 

122 


ThE.    MySTICS 


cursor.  We  have  watched  them  night  and 
day;    we  have  seen  them,  listened  to  them 

hour  after  hour,  while  they  believed  them- 
selves unobserved — " 

"And  what  do  you  know  ?  What  have  you 
learned  r"  There  was  a  strange  faintness  in 
the  tone  of  her  voice. 

"  Everything.  Only  yesterday  we  touch- 
ed the  key-stone  of  their  scheme.  To-nighl 
-this  very  night— they  have  planned  an 
escape.  They  will  attend  as  usual  in  the 
Place;  they  will  fool  us  as  they  have  fooled 
us  before;  and  then,  when  the  house  is  quiet 
—when  the  Six  are  at  rest,  exhausted  by 
praver  and  meditation — -they  will  accomplish 
their  vile  work.  They  will  plunder  the  Treas- 
ii'  v  of  the  Unseen!" 

"Oh  no!  No!"  With  a  swift  movement 
she  turned  to  him. 

He  looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  of  silence, 
ami  then  again  the  unpleasant,  excited  laugh 
escaped  him. 

J23 


THL    MySTICS 


"  You  are  right,"  he  cried,  suddenly.  "  What 
you  say  is  right.  There  will  be  no  plunder. 
The  Treasury  of  the  Unseen  will  remain 
inviolate!" 

As  he  paused  she  made  no  sound;  but  her 
eyes  rested  upon  his,  fascinated  by  their 
feverish  brightness;  and  in  the  midst  of  her 
silent  regard  he  spoke  again,  bending  for- 
ward until  his  lips  approached  her  ear. 

"They  have  laid  their  plans,"  he  whispered, 
with  a  sudden  and  savage  exultation,  "but  we 
also  have  laid  ours.  And  even  we  cannot 
reckon  upon  the  consequences.  The  spiritual 
enthusiast  is  not  easy  to  hold  in  check,  once  he 
has  been  aroused!" 

Enid  stared  at  him,  the  pupils  of  her  eyes 
dilated,  her  lips  pale. 

'You  mean —  ?  You  mean —  ?"  she  stam- 
mered; then  her  fear  found  voice.  "What 
do  you  mean  ?"  she  demanded,  in  sharp, 
alarmed  tones. 

Bale-Corphew  met  her  question,  steadily. 

124 


ThEl    My5TICS 


"I  mean,"  he  said,  with  fierce  vindictive- 
ness,  "that  at  the  Gathering  to-night  he  will 
be  publicly  denounced!" 

1  Ie  made  the  declaration  slowly,  and  each 
word  fell  with  overwhelming  weight  upon 
his  companion's  understanding.  As  in  the 
bewildered  mazes  of  a  nightmare  she  saw 
the  crowded  chapel,  the  fanatical,  unstable 
faces  of  the  congregation,  the  six  Arch- 
Mystics  —  outraged,  incensed,  unrelenting; 
and  in  their  midst  the  Prophet,  tall  and  grave 
and  masterful,  as  she  had  seen  him  a  hun- 
dred times.  One  man  facing  a  sea  of  un- 
governed  emotion!  At  the  vision  her  heart 
swelled  suddenly  and  her  soul  sickened.  With 
a  gesture,  almost  as  passionate  as  his  own,  she 
turned  upon  Bale-Corphew. 

'You  would  denounce  him  before  the  Peo- 
ple r"  she  said,  incredulously.  "You  would 
trap  him?  One  man  against  a  hundred! 
Oh,  it  would  Ik-  cowardly!     Cruel!" 

Hale-Corphew's  face  flamed  to  a  deeper  red. 

125 


THE.    My5TICS 


"Cowardly?  Cowardly?  Do  you  know 
what  you  are  saying  ?     The  man  is  a  thief!" 

For  one  moment  she  shrank  before  the 
epithet;  the  next  she  raised  her  head,  her 
eyes  flashing,  her  lips  parted. 

"You  have  no  right  to  use  that  word. 
You  have  not  seen  him  steal." 

"Seen  him?  No.  But  the  ears  are  as 
reliable  as  the  eyes,  and  we  have  heard  him 
declare  that  he  intends  to  steal." 

"Intends!  Intends!  Intentions  are  not 
acts."  In  her  deep  agitation,  she  turned 
upon  him  with   a  new  demeanor. 

"Oh,  be  merciful!"  she  cried.  "Give  him 
the  benefit  of  mercy.  Wait  till  the  Assembly 
is  over,  and  then  accuse  him.  If  you  can 
prove  your  accusation,  then  justice  can  be 
done.     On  the  other  hand — " 

"The     other    hand?"     Again     Bale-Cor- 
phew's  cruel  laugh   broke  from  him.     "He 
has  not  shrunk  from  lies — from  imposture— 
from  blasphemy.     Is  it  likely  he  will  shrink 

126 


Thfl    (vmTICS 


from  his  reward  ?  Oh  no!  We  will  run 
no  risks.  The  trap  has  closed.  No  one 
will  gain  access  to  him  to-night  until  the 
hour  of  the  Gathering  has  arrived.  It  will 
be  my  special — my  sacred — duty  to  watch 
and  guard."  As  he  spoke  his  eyes  seemed 
to  devour  her  face,  and  before  the  expression 
in  their  depths  her  strength  faltered. 

"And  why  have  you  come  here?"  she  ask- 
ed, unsteadily.  "Why  have  you  come  hen  ? 
What  has  this  to  do  with  me  ?" 

As  she  put  the  questions,  he  watched  her 
closely;  and  when  her  voice  quivered,  a 
spasm  of  emotion — a  wave  of  jealousy  and 
suspicion — swept  his  face. 

"Can  you  ask  that  question  ?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Enid  wavered. 

"Why  not?"  she  murmured.  "Why 
should  1  not  ?" 

"Why  nor  :"  [  [e  laughed  again,  suddenly 
and  savagely.     "Because  the  man  loves  you. 

127 


ThC    (Viy5TICS 

Because  he  stole  out  of  the  house  to-day — and 
came  here  to  you.  I  tracked  him  here  and 
tracked  him  back  again. 

Enid  shrank  away  from  him. 

"So — so  you  are  a  spy  ?"  she  said,  in  a  con- 
fused, uneven  voice. 

He  turned  instantly,  his  passions  aflame. 

"A  spy?"  he  cried.  "I  am  a  spy?  Very 
well!  We  will  see  who  comes  out  victor. 
The  thief  or  the  spy."  His  voice  rose,  his 
face  darkened.  The  demon  of  jealousy  that 
had  pursued  him  for  seven  days  was  free  of 
the  leash  at  last. 

"I  wanted  to  know  this,"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  wanted  to  be  sure.  I  had  my  suspicions, 
but  I  wanted  proof.  On  the  day  I  surprised 
you  with  him,  I  suspected;  to-day,  when  I  saw 
him  enter  this  house,  I  felt  convinced — " 

"Convinced  of  what?" 

"Convinced  that  there  is  more  in  this 
matter  than  his  love  for  you.  That  there  is 
also—" 

128 


Th£   (vmncs 


With  a  swift  movement  Enid  stopped  him. 
She  was  quivering  violently,  but  she  held  her 
head  high. 

'Yes,"  she  said,  distinctly.  "Yes,  you  are 
quite  right.  There  is  more  in  this  matter 
than  his  love  for  me.  There  is  also  my  love 
for  him!" 

Her  eyes  were  blazing;  her  heart  was  beat- 
ing fast.  With  an  agitation  equal  to  Bale- 
Corphew's  own  she  moved  to  the  fireplace 
and  pressed  the  bell. 

When  the  servant  appeared  she  turned  to 
her. 

'Norris,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  voice,  "show 
Mr.  Bale-Corphew  out:" 


CHAPTER   IX 

[HERE  are  few  phases  of  human 
existence  more  interesting  than 
that  in  which  a  young  and  sen- 
sitive woman  is  compelled  by 
circumstances  to  cast  aside  the 
pleasant  artifices,  the  carefully  modulated 
emotions  of  a  sheltered  life,  and  to  face  the 
realities  of  fact  and  feeling. 

For  twenty  -  three  years  Enid  Witcherley 
had  played  with  existence — toying  with  it, 
enjoying  it,  as  an  epicure  enjoys  a  rare  wine 
or  a  choice  morsel  of  food  prepared  for  his 
appreciation.  Now,  as  she  stood  alone  in 
her  small  drawing-room  with  its  costly  dec- 
orations, its  feminine  atmosphere,  she  was 
conscious  for  the  first  time  that  the  banquet 
of  life  is  not  in  reality  a  display  of  delicate 
viands  and  tempting  vintages,  but  a  meal  of 

130 


ThL    IvmTICS 


common  bread — sweet  or  bitter  as  destiny 
decrees.  She  saw  this,  and  with  a  flash  of 
comprehension  knew  and  acknowledged  that 
her  heart  and  her  brain  cried  out  for  the 
wholesome  necessary  food. 

An  hour  ago,  when  the  Prophet  had  stood 
before  her  and  made  his  confession,  she  had 
been  overwhelmed  by  the  tide  of  her  own 
feelings;  in  the  rush  of  humiliation  and  dis- 
appointment— in  the  tremendous  knowledge 
that  the  image  she  had  called  gold  was  in 
reality  but  clay — she  had  been  too  mortified 
to  see  beyond  her  own  horizon.  In  that  mo- 
ment their  places  in  the  drama  had  been 
indisputably  allotted.  She  herself  had  ap- 
peared the  unoffending  heroine,  unjustly  hu- 
miliated in  her  own  eyes  and  in  the  eyes 
of  others;  he  had  stood  out,  in  unpardonable 
guise,  the  cause — the  instrument — of  that 
humiliation.  In  the  bitter  knowledge  she 
had  confronted  him  unrelentingly.  A  spoil- 
ed child — an  unreasoning  feminine  egoist. 


ThC    MySTICS 


But  now  that  moment,  with  its  instructive 
and  primitive  emotions,  was  passed  by  what 
seemed  months  —  years  —  a  century.  By  a 
process  of  mind  as  swift  as  it  was  subtle,  the 
child  had  grown  into  a  woman — the  egoist 
had  become  conscious  of  another  existence. 
With  the  entrance  of  Bale-Corphew — with  the 
sound  of  her  own  denunciation  upon  his  lips — 
a  new  feeling  had  awakened  within  her — a 
feeling  stronger  than  humiliation,  stronger 
than  pride.  It  had  risen,  blinding  and  daz- 
zling her,  as  a  great  light  might  blind  and 
dazzle;  and  she  stood  glorified  and  exalted 
within  its  radiance. 

As  the  door  had  closed  upon  her  second 
visitor,  a  long  sobbing  sigh  of  excitement,  of 
tumultuous  joy  and  fear  shook  her  from 
head  to  foot;  she  involuntarily  drew  her  fig- 
ure to  its  full  height,  and  covered  her  face 
with  both  hands,  as  though  to  ward  off  the 
light  that  lay  across  her  world. 

But  the  great  moment  of  joy   and  com- 

132 


ThE.    (vmTICS 


prehension  could  not  last;  other  and  men 
insistent  factors  were  at  work  within  her 
mind — claiming,  even  demanding  attention. 
Almost  as  the  outer  door  closed  upon  I>ale- 
Corphew,  her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides  and 
an  expression  akin  to  terror  crossed  her  eyes. 
With  a  mind  rendered  supersensitive  by  its 
own  emotions,  she  realized  what  the  next  five 
hours  might  hold;  and  like  a  tangible  menace 
the  dark,  angry  face  of  the  Arch-Mystic 
flashed  back  upon  her  consciousness. 

While  he  had  been  present  in  the  room, 
while  his  turbulent  voice  had  rilled  her  ears, 
she  had  been  only  partly  alive  to  the  threat- 
ened danger;  but  now  that  his  presence  had 
been  removed,  now  that  she  was  free  to  sift 
the  meaning  of  his  words,  their  full  signifi- 
cance was  borne  in  upon  her.  With  an 
alarming  clearness  <>f  vision,  she  recognized 
that  behind  his  threats  lay  a  definite  meaning; 
that  the  man  himself,  at  all  rimes  passionate, 
and,  on  occasion,  violent  in  temperament,  had 

l33 


tmc  Mystics 

U»A<g>&©*S5*A4cf**n 

suddenly   become    a    danger  —  something   as 
fierce  and  menacing  as  an  uncontrolled  element. 

She  realized  and  understood  this  rapidly, 
as  only  the  mind  knows  and  comprehends 
in  moments  of  stress  and  crisis;  and  before 
her  knowledge,  all  ideas  save  one  fell  away 
like  chaff  before  the  wind.  At  all  costs — in 
face  of  every  obstacle — she  must  warn  and 
save  the  Prophet! 

With  a  start  of  apprehension,  she  glanced 
at  the  clock  and  saw  that  the  hands  marked 
ten  minutes  to  seven.  Moving  to  the  fire- 
place, she  once  more  pressed  the  bell;  and 
as  Norris  answered,  turned  to  her,  heedless 
for  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life  of  out- 
ward appearances. 

"Get  me  my  long  black  cloak,  Norris," 
she  said.  "And  a  black  hat  and  veil.  I  am 
going  out." 

Norris's  face  expressed  no  surprise. 

"You  will  be  back  to  dinner,  ma'am  ?"  she 
inquired. 

134 


ThEl    (ViysilCS 


''No.     I  shall  not  want  dinner.     I  may  not 

be  back  till  ten — perhaps  eleven.  If  I  am 
late,  no  one  need  wait  up."  She  walked  to  a 
mirror  and  began  nervously  smoothing  her 
ruffled  hair,  while  Norris  left  the  room,  and 
returned  with  the  desired  garments. 

With  the  same  nervous  haste  she  put  on 
her  hat,  tied  the  thick  veil  over  her  face,  and 
allowed  herself  to  be  helped  into  her  cloak. 
Then,  without  a  word,  she  crossed  the  draw- 
ing-room, passed  through  the  hall  of  the  flat, 
and  entered  the  lift. 

At  the  street-door  she  was  compelled  to 
wait  while  the  hall-porter  called  a  cab;  and 
the  momentary  delay  almost  overtaxed  her 
patience.  An  audible  sound  of  relief  escaped 
her  when  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  jingle  of 
bells  announced  that  the  wait  was  over. 

"St.  George's  Terrace!"  she  ordered,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  it  seemed  to  her  perturbed 
mind  that  even  the  stolid  attendant  must 
find     something    portentous     in     the    words; 

'35 


ThE.    MYSTICS 

then  she  sank  into  the  corner  of  the  cab  and 
closed  her  eyes,  as  she  heard  her  order  re- 
peated to  the  cabman,  and  felt  the  horse 
swing  forward  into  the  stream  of  traffic. 

More  than  once  she  altered  her  position  as 
the  distance  between  Knightsbridge  and  St. 
George's  Terrace  lessened.  She  was  devour- 
ed by  impatience  and  yet  paralyzed  by  dread. 
Once,  as  the  cab  halted  in  a  block  of  traffic, 
she  heard  a  clock  strike  seven,  and  at  the 
sound  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face  as  she 
thought  of  the  nearness  of  her  ordeal:  but 
an  instant  later  she  drew  out  her  watch  to 
verify  the  time,  and  paled  with  sudden  appre- 
hension as  she  realized  that  the  clock  was 
slow. 

So  her  mind  oscillated  until  the  cab  drew 
up  beside  the  curb;  and,  with  a  nervous  start, 
she  heard  the  cabman  open  the  trap-door. 

"What  number,  lady  ?"  he  asked. 

She  answered  almost  guiltily:  No  num- 
ber!    Just  stop  here!     Put  me  down  here!" 

136 


^«  v.SJ'W^,'^.  _ 


HER     HAND     WAS      rREMBLING      \s     SHE     RAISED     Till 
HEAVY    KNOCKER" 


ThC    (Y1V5TICS 


She    rose,   gathering   her    long    cloak    about 
her. 

Try  as  she  might,  she  could  nor  control  her 
excitement,  as  she  crossed  the  roadway  and 
entered  Hellier  Crescent  after  a  week's  ab- 
sence. Her  hand  was  trembling  as  she  raised 
the  heavy  knocker  on  the  familiar  door;  and 
her  voice  shook  as  she  repeated  the  necessary 
formula. 

There  was  a  slight  delay — a  slight  hesitancy 
on  the  part  of  the  door-keeper;  then  the  slide, 
which  had  opened  at  her  knock,  closed  with  a 
click,  and  the  massive  door  swung  back. 

She  stepped  forward  eagerly,  but  on  the 
moment  that  she  entered  the  hall  her  heart 
sank.  With  a  thrill  of  apprehension  she  saw 
that  in  place  of  the  humble  member  of  the 
congregation  who  usually  attended  there, 
the  tall,  fair-bearded  Arch-Mystic  known  as 
George  Norov  was  guarding  the  door.  Small 
though  the  incident  might  appear,  it  con- 
veyed to  her,  as  no  spoken  declaration  could 

1.37 


THE.  ivmTics 

U<f4&&€B4^A4cf&t<H 

have  done,  the  spirit  of  action  and  vigilance 
reigning  in  the  House. 

While  the  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind,  Norov  surveyed  her  from  his  great 
height. 

"You  are  in  good  time,  my  child;  the 
Gathering  is  for  eight  o'clock." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quickly.  "I  know  it  is 
for  eight  o'clock,  but  I  have  come  early.  I 
have  come  because  I  wish — "  Her  courage 
faltered  before  the  intent,  searching  gaze  of 
his  blue  eyes. 

"I  have  come,"  she  added,  with  gathered 
resolution,  "because  I  desire  private  Audience 
with  the  Prophet — because  there  is  something 
on  my  Soul  of  which  I  must  unburden  my- 
self." 

The  Arch-Mystic  looked  at  her  and  his  eyes 
seemed  cold  as  steel. 

"The  Prophet  holds  private  Audience  only 
in  the  morning,"  he  replied,  in  an  even  voice. 

138 


THC    |V)y5TICS 


Enid  Hushed. 

"I  know  that.  Hut  there  are  exceptions 
to  the  rule  — " 

The  Arch-Mystic  shook  his  head. 

'The  Prophet  holds  private  Audience  only 
in  the  morning." 

"But  the  Prophet  is  generous.  Five  min- 
utes alone  with  him  will  satisfy  me  three 
minutes — two  minutes—  Her  tone  quick- 
ened as  her  anxiety  increased. 

Still  Norov's  blue  eyes  met  hers  unswerv- 
ingly. 

"The  Prophet  holds  private  Audience  only 
in  the  morning." 

At  the  second  repetition  her  apprehension 
rose  to  fear;  and  in  her  alarmed  trepidation 
she  conceived  a  new  idea.  With  a  rapid 
searching  glance  her  eyes  travelled  over  the 
Vrch  -  Mystic's  powerful  figure,  while  she 
mentally  measured  his  physical  strength  with 
that  of  tin-  Prophet.  Her  survey  was  short 
and  comprehensive;    and   her  decision  came 

139 


THE.   ivmncs 


H»4<g)&©*S3*A&Cf**n 

with  equal  speed.  With  a  subtle  change  of 
manner  and  voice  she  made  a  fresh  appeal. 
Turning  to  him  with  a  gesture  of  deference, 
she  spoke  again  in  a  soft  and  conciliatory 
voice. 

"Of  course,  you  are  right  in  what  you 
say,"  she  murmured.  "But  I  am  going  to 
make  an  appeal.  If  I  may  not  see  the 
Prophet  in  private  Audience,  then  let  me  see 
him  in  your  presence!  I  have  only  a  dozen 
words  to  say;  and,  if  necessary,  I  will  say 
them  in  your  presence.  You  can  see  it  is 
urgent,  when  I  am  willing  to  humiliate  my- 
self. It  is  only  for  her  Soul  that  a  woman 
will  conquer  her  pride.  You  won't  deny 
peace  to  my  Soul  ?"  Her  voice  dropped,  her 
whole  expression  pleaded. 

For  a  moment — -for  just  one  moment — it 
seemed  to  her  desperate  gaze  that  his  hard 
blue  eyes  softened;  the  next,  their  cold,  un- 
yielding glance  disillusioned  her  of  hope. 

"It  is  useless  to  appeal  to  me,"  he  said; 

140 


THE.    fvmTICS 


"but  if  you  very  much  desire  it,  you  can  make 
your  request  to  my  brother  Mystic — Horatio 
Bale-Corphew.  He  is  guarding  the  Prophet's 
Threshold." 

Whether  the  man  had  any  glimmering  of 
knowledge  as  to  her  private  connection  with 
Bale-Corphew  and  the  Prophet  was  not  to  be 
read  from  his  austere  face.  His  words  might 
have  been  spoken  in  all  innocence,  or  might 
have  been  spoken  deliberately  and  with 
malice.  But  in  either  case  the  result,  so  far 
as  his  listener  was  concerned,  was  the  same. 
A  sense  of  frightened  impotence  fell  upon 
her — a  knowledge  that  her  enemy  had  a  longer 
reach  and  a  more  powerful  arm  than  she  had 
guessed. 

By  a  great  effort  she  controlled  her  feelings. 

'Thank  you!"  she  said,  quietly,  "but  I 
will  not  trouble  Mr.  ISale-Corphew.  If  I 
maw  I  will  wait  in  the  Place  until  the  Gather- 
ing is  assembled." 

Her  companion  bent  his  head. 

141 


the:  mystics 


&***(£>*©4§3*A4cf**4* 


"Permission  is  granted!"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  longer  she  stood,  burning 
with  apprehensive  dread.  On  one  hand  was 
the  Prophet  —  trapped  and  unaware  of  his 
peril;  on  the  other  was  Bale-Corphew — im- 
placable, enraged,  unrelaxing  in  his  pursuit. 
She  waited  irresolute,  until  the  cold,  inquir- 
ing gaze  of  the  Arch-Mystic  made  action 
compulsory;  then,  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
movement,  she  inclined  her  head  in  mechani- 
cal acknowledgment  of  his  courtesy,  and, 
turning  away,  passed  down  the  lofty,  sombre 
hall. 

Never  in  after-life  was  she  able  to  remem- 
ber, with  any  degree  of  distinctness,  her 
threading  of  the  familiar  corridors  leading 
to  the  chapel.  Her  consciousness  of  outer 
things  was  numbed  by  mental  strife.  Reach- 
ing the  heavy  curtain  that  shut  off  the  sacred 
precinct,  she  thrust  it  aside  with  nervous  im- 
petuosity and  stood  looking  around  the  de- 
serted   chapel — glancing    from    the    rows    of 

142 


IhL    My5TKS 


empty  chairs  to  the  Sanctuary,  where  the 
great  golden  Throne  stood  shrouded  in  n 
white  cloth,  and  the  silver  censers  lay  await- 
ing tin-  dame. 

At  a  first  glance  it  sinned  that  the  chapel 
was  entirely  empty,  but  as  her  eyes  grew 
accustomed  to  the  modulated  light  diffused 
by  eight  large  tapers,  she  saw  that  the  Sanct- 
uary \vas  occupied  by  one  sombre  figure  that 
flitted  silently  between  the  lectern  and  the 
Throne.  For  an  instant  her  heart  leaped, 
for  the  man  was  of  the  same  height  and  build 
as  the  Precursor;  but  a  second  glance  put  her 
hopes  to  flight.  The  Mystic  within  the 
Sanctuary  was  the  humble  member  of  the 
congregation  whose  duty  it  was  to  wait  upon 
the  Prophet. 

As  she  passed  slowly  and  automatically  up 
the  aisle,  the  man  turned  and  looked  at  her; 
but  after  a  cursory  glance  returned  to  his  task 
of  setting  the  Sanctuary  m  order. 

The  look  and  the  evident  unconcern  chilled 

143 


Tnc  (vmncs 


U»4<g>*©*£5iA4cf4  +  &* 

and  daunted  her  anew.  With  a  movement 
of  despair  she  paused,  and  sank  into  one  of 
the  empty  chairs. 

For  a  space  that  seemed  eternal,  she  sat 
huddled  in  her  seat — her  hands  clasped  ner- 
vously in  her  lap;  her  ears  alert  to  catch  the 
slightest  sound;  her  eyes  unconsciously  fol- 
lowing the  movements  of  the  man  within  the 
Sanctuary;  then,  suddenly  and  abruptly, 
the  tension  snapped;  and  action — action  of 
some  description — became  imperative.  She 
rose  from  her  seat. 

After  she  had  risen,  she  stood  aimlessly 
looking  about  her  at  the  black-and-white 
walls,  at  the  rows  of  chairs,  at  the  gleaming 
octagonal  symbol  that  hung  from  the  roof; 
then,  as  if  magnetically  attracted,  her  glance 
travelled  back  to  the  man  inside  the  Sanct- 
uary rail. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  spare 
figure,  moving  reverently  from  one  sacred 
object  to  another;    but  as  her  eyes  rested  on 

144 


the:  Mysncs 


the  colorless,  ascetic  face,  her  own  cheeks 
flushed  with  a  new  hope — a  new  inspiration. 
With  a  quick  movement  she  glanced  furtively 
behind  her;  and,  stepping  carefully  between 
the  chairs,  regained  the  aisle  and  moved 
swiftly  and  noiselessly  up  the  chapel. 

Her  heart  was  beating  so  fast,  the  nervous 
strain  was  so  intense,  that  when  she  reached 
the  railing  she  stood  for  a  moment  unable  to 
command  her  voice.  And  when  the  Mystic — 
becoming  suddenly  aware  of  her  near  pres- 
ence— turned  and  confronted  her,  a  faint 
sound  of  nervous  alarm  slipped  from  her. 

For  a  space  the  two  looked  at  each  other; 
and  at  last  the  man  appeared  to  realize  that 
something  was  expected  of  him.  Bending 
his  head,  he  uttered  the  formula  of  the  sect. 

"In  what  can  I  serve  you  ?" 

The  familiar  words  braced  Enid.  She 
glanced  at  him  afresh,  and  in  that  glance  her 
plan  of  action  arranged  itself.  For  one  mo- 
ment, as  she  had  walked  up  the  aisle,  her  hand 

•45 


the:  wysTics 


had  sought  her  purse,  but  now,  as  she  scanned 
the  ascetic  face  of  this  unworldly  servant,  her 
fingers  involuntarily  loosened  and  the  purse 
slipped  back  into  her  pocket.  With  a  new 
resolve,  she  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"You  can  do  me  a  great  service — a  very 
great  service,"  she  said,  quietly,  in  her  soft, 
clear  voice. 

The  man  looked  at  her  in  slow  inquiry. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  are  surprised,"  she  added, 
quickly.  "I  know  this  seems  unusual — " 
She  paused  in  momentary  hesitation. 

The  Mystic  appeared  distressed. 

"My — my  duty — "  he  broke  in,  uneasily. 
"My  duty  is  to— " 

But  she  checked  him  suddenly. 

"Charity  is  greater  than  duty!"  she  said, 
in  a  low,  impressive  tone.  By  the  same 
feminine  intuition  that  had  made  her  dis- 
card her  purse,  she  saw  that  by  a  semi- 
mystical  appeal— and  by  that  alone — could 
she  hope  to  succeed.     Laying  her  hands  upon 

146 


%l    AM    l\    NEED   OF    ill-"! 


.    AND    VOl     C  w    III  l  P   Ml-  '  " 


the:   My5Tics 


the  Sanctuary  railing,  she  leaned  forward, 
and  raised  her  large  eyes  to  the  man's  face. 

'Which  do  you  consider  the  greater  vir- 
tue ?"  she  asked.     "Duty  or  charity  ?" 

The  Mystic  looked  at  her. 

"Charity,"  he  said,  at  last,  hesitatingly, 
"the  Prophet  teaches  us — " 

Enid's  face  flushed. 

"Yes!  yes!"  she  cried.  "The  Prophet 
teaches  us  that  charity  is  the  greater  virtue. 
He  tells  us  that  we  are  to  rely  upon  oursc  Ives 
— and  also  upon  each  other.  We  are  to  help 
ourselves — and  to  help  each  other."  Her 
voice  shook,  her  face  glowed  in  her  excite- 
ment and  susp<  nse. 

'1  am  in  need  of  help,"  she  added.  "In 
desperate  need.     And  you  can  help  me." 

Her  tone  was  urgent,  her  compelling  gaze 
never  faltered.  She  knew  that  this  w;is  her 
last  chance  that,  if  this  man  failed  her, 
catastrophe  w;is  inevitable. 

The  Mvstic  stirred  uncomfortably,  and  his 

i47 


TttC    MySTICS 


glance  turned  half  fearfully  from  the  intent, 
appealing  face  to  the  lectern  on  which  rested 
the  white-bound  Scitsym. 

With  a  sudden  access  of  enthusiasm,  Enid 
spoke  again. 

'There  is  something  troubling  my  Soul," 
she  said.  "Something  that  I  must  confess 
to  the  Prophet  to-night.  My  whole  happi- 
ness— all  my  peace — depends  upon  confessing 
it.  I  cannot  speak  with  him  before  the  Gath- 
ering assembles;  but  I  can  write  my  confes- 
sion. Will  you  save  my  Soul  ?  Will  you 
carry  my  confession  to  him  ?" 

Until  the  words  were  actually  spoken,  she 
did  not  realize  how  immensely  she  had  staked 
upon  her  chances  of  success.  In  a  fever  of 
anxiety  she  waited,  watching  the  man's  gaze 
as  it  wavered  undecidedly  over  the  Scitsym, 
then  returned,  as  if  magnetized,  to  her  face. 

"In  twenty  minutes  the  Gathering  will  be 
assembled,"  he  murmured. 

"I  know,  I  know.     But  there  is  still  time. 

148 


the.  (vmnts 


it    is    a    matter   of — of    faith — of  peace    of 
mind." 

The  man  shuffled  his  feet. 

"It — it  is  impossible,"  he  said. 

"Why  impossible  r" 

*  Because  the  Prophet  is  exalted  to-night. 
1  he  Arch-Mystics  themselves  are  guarding 
tlu'  Threshold.  The  Prophet  is  exalted;  he 
must  not  be  disturbed." 

"  But  if  it  is  necessary  to  disturb  him  ?  If 
there  is  a  Soul  in  danger?" 

'The  Prophet  must  not  be  disturbed. 
What  are  we,  that  we  should  thrust  our 
wrong-doing  or  our  sorrow  upon  the  Mighty 
One  ?" 

At  the  words  a  rage  of  apprehension  shook 
Enid.  She  lifted  her  head,  and  her  ringers 
closed  fiercely  round  the  iron  bar  that  topped 
the  railing. 

"Silence!"  she  said,  excitedly.  "You  do 
not  know  what  you  an-  sa\  ing!  I  he  Prophet 
sets    his    people    high    above    himself.      The 

149 


TttC    MYSTICS 


message  of  a  Soul  in  distress  is  of  more  value 
in  his  eyes  than  a  hundred  moments  of  ex- 
altation. Take  care  that  his  wrath  does  not 
fall  upon  you!" 

Involuntarily  the  man  paled. 

"Yes.  Take  care!"  she  cried.  "Take 
care!  You  have  the  well-being — the  whole 
future — of  one  Soul  in  your  hands  to-night. 
How  will  you  answer  to  the  Prophet,  if  you 
fail  in  the  trust  ?" 

The  Mystic  cowered. 

"If  you  fail,  the  wrong  can  never  be  re- 
paired. And  the  doing  of  the  action  will 
cost  you  nothing.  Take  this  note — "  With 
agitated  haste  she  tore  a  leaf  from  a  tiny 
note-book  that  hung  at  her  waist.  "Take 
this  note.  Tell  no  one.  Give  it  into  the 
Prophet's  own  hands — "  She  drew  out  a 
pencil  and  wrote  a  few  enigmatical  words. 
"Give  it  into  his  own  hands;  and  I  can 
promise  you  that  your  reward  will  be  greater 
than  you  think."     With  a  rapid  movement, 

150 


ThC    (V)y5TICS 


she  rolled   up  the  paper  and  held  it  out  to 
him. 

'Take  it,"  she  said,  impressively.  "And 
remember  that  it  is  something  important, 
essential — sacred."  On  the  last  word  her 
voice  rose;  then,  without  warning,  it  sud- 
denly broke. 

A  curtain  at  the  back  of  the  Sanctuary 
had  been  drawn  aside;  and  for  the  second 
time  that  evening,  the  face  of  Bale-Corphew 
confronted  her  through  the  dusk. 


CHAPTER  X 


|OR  one  instant  Enid  stood 
spellbound;  then  involuntarily 
she  stepped  backward,  crump- 
ling the  slip  of  paper  in  her 
hand. 

At  the  same  movement  Bale-Corphew  ad- 
vanced and,  passing  the  Mystic,  indicated 
the  Sanctuary  curtain. 

"Go!"  he  commanded,  in  an  unsteady 
voice.  And  as  the  man  slunk  away,  he  wheel- 
ed round  and  confronted  Enid. 

"So  this  is  your  action?"  he  said,  tremu- 
lously. 'This  is  your  conception  of  honor  ? 
Truly,  woman  is  the  undoing  of  man !"  With 
an  excited  gesture,  he  lifted  his  hand  and  ex- 
tended it  towards  the  white  Scitsym  lying 
upon  the  lectern. 

152 


The  (viysTics 

I  kit  Enid  met  his  attack  with  the  courage 
that  sometimes  outlives  hope. 

"A  just  man  need  fear  no  woman!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "It  is  because  you  are  unjust  and 
.1  coward  that  you  fear — that  you  suspect — 
that  you  find  it  necessary  to  hide  and  spy." 

The  color  surged  over  his  face. 
'I    have    been    outraged!"    he    cried — "I 
have  been  outraged!" 

"And,  like  an  unreasoning  animal,  you  turn 
to  devour  the  thing  that  has  hurt  you  ?" 

"I  demand  justice." 

She  threw  out  her  hands  and  laughed  sud- 
denly and  hysterically. 

"And  you  call  this  justice?  You  call  ir 
justice  to  trap  one  nun  and  set  a  hundred 
others  loose  upon  him  ?" 

Ikit  Bale-Corphew  turned  upon  her. 

"And  what  is  this  man  to  you?"  he  cried. 

'What  spell  has  he  cast  upon  you  that  v<>n 

ran  forget  his  outrage  and  his  blasphemy?" 

Enid  met  the  question  with  her  new  forti- 

*53 


THE.    (vmTICS 


tude;  searching  Bale  -  Corphew's  turbulent 
face,  she  answered  with  a  certain  high  sim- 
plicity. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said.  "Once  I  be- 
lieved that  I  admired  him — that  I  looked  up 
to  him — because  he  was  a  Prophet;  something 
higher  and  better  than  myself.  Now  I  know 
that  my  belief  was  wrong  and  false;  that  it 
was  because  he  is  a  man — because,  before 
everything  else  in  the  world,  he  is  a  man — 
that  I  turned  to  him,  that  I  relied  upon  him." 

Bale-Corphew  gave  a  short,  cruel  laugh. 

"So  that  is  it?  That  is  the  secret?  He 
is  a  man  ?  Well,  I  will  strip  him  of  his  man- 
hood! We  have  had  our  disillusioning;  yours 
is  to  come.  Here,  on  this  sacred  spot  where 
he  has  been  so  exalted,  he  will  bite  the  dust." 

He  paused  triumphantly;  and  in  the  pause 
there  rose  again  to  Enid's  mind  the  picture  of 
one  tall,  white-robed  figure  confronting  a  sea 
of  faces — all  incensed — all  passionately,  vin- 
dictively unanimous  in  desire. 

154 


ThEL    (vmTICS 


H»4<ft&©&£36A*Cf*  +  U 

"Oh  no!"  slu  said,  suddenly,  faltering  be- 
fore  the  picture.  "Nol  No!  You  cannot. 
You  must  not.  Be  merciful]  Let  him  go. 
\nd  if  there  is  anything— any  recompense — " 
But  even  as  it  was  spoken,  the  appeal  died. 
Somewhere  in  the  heart  of  the  House  a  solemn 
clock  chimed  the  hour  of  eight;  and  as 
though  the  sound  were  a  signal,  the  curtain 
of  the:  chapel  door  was  drawn  softly  hack, 
and  a  stream  of  dark-robed  figures  poured 
over  the  empty  floor. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  immovable  before 
the  imminence  of  the  crucial  scene;  then, 
with  a  sensation  of  physical  weakness  and 
helplessness,  she  turned,  moved  blindlv  for- 
ward, and  sank  into  a  vacant  seat. 

At  the  same  moment  Bale-Corphew  left  her 
without  a  word,  and  passed  rapidly  down  the 
aisle. 

( iit  at  fear  frequently  exercises  a  paralyzing 
effect  upon  tin  body.  With  the  undeniable 
knowledge  that  the  time  for  action — the  time 

i55 


ThC    |V»y5TICS 


4*  +  4<g>&@4BgiA*cr»  +  &l 

for  hope — was  irrevocably  passed,  Enid  felt 
deprived  of  the  power  to  move.  She  sat 
crouching  in  her  seat,  ever)'  sense  alive  and 
strained,  but  with  limbs  that  were  overpower- 
ed and  weighted  as  if  by  tangible  fetters. 

Thrilling  to  this  numb  and  impotent  sense 
of  dread,  she  heard  the  devotees  enter  the 
chapel,  one  after  another,  and  pass  to  their 
chosen  seats  with  soft,  gliding  steps.  With 
a  sickening  knowledge  of  approaching  catas- 
trophe, she  saw  another  of  the  unconventional 
black-robed  servants  emerge  from  behind  the 
Sanctuary  curtain,  and  proceed  with  mad- 
dening deliberation  to  light  the  sixteen  groups 
of  wax  tapers  that  were  set  at  intervals  along 
the  walls.  Mechanically  her  eyes  followed 
the  man's  movements;  and  it  seemed  that 
each  new  taper  that  spat,  flickered,  and  shot 
up  into  a  light  was  a  symbol,  a  portent  of 
the  scene  to  come. 

As  the  last  candle  was  lighted,  the  shuf- 
fling of  feet  and  the  stir  of  garments  that, 

156 


ThC    (vmTICS 


since  the  entry  of  the  first  devotee,  had  un- 
ceasingly tilled  the  chapel  suddenly  sub- 
sided, and  nerved  to  motion  by  the  lull,  she 
turned  and  glanced   behind  her. 

The  scene,  familiar  though  it  was,  im- 
pressed her  anew.  It  was  a  strange  effect 
in  black  and  white.  The  black  clothes  of 
the  congregation  seemed  massed  together  in 
a  sombre  blur;  their  strained,  fanatical  faces 
looked  white  and  set;  while  the  marble  walls 
shone  out,  sharp  and  polished,  in  the  same 
contrasting  hues.  Over  the  whole  scene  the 
concentrated  light  and  accentuated  shadow 
thrown  by  the  great  sconces  glowing  with 
tapers,  made  a  variation  of  tone  almost  as 
vivid  as  that  seen  on  a  moonlight  night. 

Unconsciously  she  recognized  the  curious, 

JO  ' 

the  almost  barbaric  picturesqueness  of  light 
and  grouping;  but  her  eyes  had  barely  skim- 
med the  scene  when  the  meaning  of  tin-  hush 
that  rilled  the  place  was  brought  home  to 
her  mind. 

'57 


THE.    MySTICS 


Glancing  towards  the  curtain  that  hid  the 
entrance,  she  saw  the  figure  of  the  Prophet 
move  slowly  into  the  chapel  and  pass  up  the 
aisle,  attended  by  the  Precursor  and  the  Six 
Arch-Mystics. 

He  moved  forward  with  grave,  dignified 
steps,  and  with  a  head  held  even  higher 
than  usual,  and  reaching  the  Sanctuary  gate, 
passed  through  it  without  hesitation. 

The  action  was  so  calm — so  natural — so 
like  what  she  had  witnessed  night  after  night 
— that  Enid  sat  newly  petrified,  her  senses 
striving  to  associate  this  strong  figure  with 
the  man  who,  only  a  few  hours  before,  had 
humiliated  himself  in  her  presence.  For  a 
moment  her  mind  refused  the  connection  of 
ideas;  but  the  next  a  full  realization  of  the 
position  swept  over  her,  galvanizing  her  men- 
tally and  physically,  as  she  turned  in  her  seat 
and  glanced  at  the  seven  who  were  following 
in  the  wake. 

First    behind    his    master   came    the    Pre- 

158 


-Ill      S  \W      I  ill      IK. I  R]     01      llll     PROPH1   I 
VTTENDED   B1      I  II  I      PR]  CI  RSOR     Wl> 

i  in     SI  \    \iu  n-\n  si  us" 


Tn£    MysTICS 


cursor.  And  to  Enid's  searching  gaze  it 
se(  med  that  his  face  was  set  into  unfamiliar 

and  anxious  lines;  hut  under  his  black  cap 
and  red  hair,  his  skin  looked  colorless  and 
drawn.  But  after  the  Hist  glance,  her  eyes 
were  not  Tor  him;  with  swift  apprehension 
they  passed  to  the  six  Arch-Mystics  who, 
walking  two  and  two,  formed  the  proces- 
sion. 

Animated  by  the  speed  of  actual  fear,  her 
gaze  passed  from  the  abnormally  agitated 
face  of  old  Arian,  the  blind  Arch-Councillor, 
to  the  dark,  turbulent  face  of  Bale-Corphew, 
who  brought  up  the  rear.  The  survey  was 
r.ipid  and  comprehensive;  and  to  her  un- 
easy mind  the  thought  came  with  unerring 
certainty  that,  on  all  the  six  faces — differing 
so  markedly  in  physical  characteristics — 
there  was  a  common  look  of  suppressed 
excitement,  of  suppressed  resolve. 

As  they  passed  her  seat,  Norov  turned  and 
shot  a  glance  of  cold  curiosity  in  her  direction; 

159 


THE.    MYSTICS 


but  otherwise  the  whole  group  seemed  un- 
aware of  her  presence.  Still  inert,  she  sat, 
watching  every  movement  in  the  scene  before 
her  as  one  might  watch  a  drama  that  would, 
at  a  given  moment,  cease  to  be  entertainment 
and  become  real  life. 

Very  quietly  the  Prophet  advanced  to  the 
Scitsym  and,  following  the  customary  rou- 
tine, opened  it  and  began  to  read. 

The  words  were  a  strange  jargon  of  mys- 
tical counsel  interspersed  with  the  relation 
of  mystical  visions  and  ecstasies.  On  ordi- 
nary lips,  the  long,  disjointed  sentences  and 
disconnected  phrases  would  have  sounded 
vague  and  incomprehensible;  but,  from  the 
first,  it  had  been  one  of  the  Prophet's  special 
gifts  that  his  deep,  grave  voice  could  lend 
weight  and  meaning  to  the  fantastic  utter- 
ances. And  to-night  it  seemed  that  he  in- 
tended to  put  forth  all  his  powers;  for  scarce- 
ly had  he  opened  the  book  and  begun  to 
read,  than  a  stir  of  interest  passed  over  the 

1 60 


TME1    fvmTlCS 


congregation;  and  even  Enid,  enmeshed  in 

her  own  terrors,  bent  forward  involuntarily. 

He  spoke  very  slowly,  enunciating  every 
word  with  studied  seriousness;  and  from  time 
to  time  he  paused  and  looked  across  the  sea 
of  fixed  and  almost  adoring  faces  turned  in 
his  direction.  It  was  as  if,  by  strength  of 
will,  he  had  determined  that  no  point,  no 
syllable,  of  this,  his  last  reading,  should  be 
lost  upon  his  hearers.  More  than  once, 
Bale-Corphew  moved  uneasily  and  shot  a 
glance  at  Norov;  but  the  Prophet  was  un- 
conscious of  these  surreptitious  signs. 

For  half  an  hour  he  read  on,  slowly,  dis- 
tinctly, impressively;  then,  still  following 
the  routine  of  the  evening  service,  he  closed 
the  book  and  calmly  moved  across  the  Sanct- 
uary to  the  Throne.  As  he  neared  it,  the 
1'ivcursor  stepped  forward  deferentially  and 
conducted  him  to  the  foot  of  the  gilt  steps. 

Having  ascended,  he  took  his  seat  with 
calm  impassivity  and,  resting  his  hands  upon 

161 


THE.    MYSTICS 


the  arms  of  the  great  gold  chair,  looked  out 
once  more  upon  the  massed  faces.  This, 
according  to  custom,  was  the  signal  for  a 
general  movement.  The  congregation  sway- 
ed forward,  prostrating  themselves  upon  the 
ground,  while  the  Arch  -  Mystics  gathered 
their  wide,  black  robes  about  them  and  as- 
sumed attitudes  of  rapt  contemplation. 

In  obedience  to  usage,  Enid  also  dropped 
upon  her  knees  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  But  though  her  pose  was  con- 
ventional, there  was  little  place  in  her 
thoughts  for  either  prayer  or  meditation. 
One  idea  —  and  one  only  —  absorbed  her 
being.  How,  and  at  what  moment,  must 
she  gather  strength  to  act  ?  She  crouched 
upon  the  ground,  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
over  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  the 
torture,  all  the  suspense  and  apprehension 
of  the  universe,  were  gathered  into  that  half- 
hour  of  appalling  silence.  Once  she  vent- 
ured    to     unlace    her    fingers    and    glance 

162 


THE    MySTIlS 

through  them  fearfully;  hut  at  sight  of  the 

Prophet,  calm,  impassive,  unconscious  of 
his  threatened  danger  —  at  sight  of  the  six 
sombre  shrouded  figures  that  sat  inside  the 
Sanctuary  railing,  her  blood  turned  cold  and 
her  courage  quailed. 

W  hen  the  sign  that  ended  the  evening's 
meditation  was  given,  she  rose  with  the  rest 
and  sank  weakly  into  her  seat.  Then,  in 
dumb,  stricken  helplessness  such  as  envel- 
ops us  in  a  terrible  dream,  she  saw  the 
Prophet  rise  very  slowly  and  stand  on  the 
steps  of  the  Throne,  looking  solemnly  down 
upon  the  people. 

During  his  change  of  position,  she  sat 
vacillating  pitiably.  The  knowledge  that  in 
a  single  moment  he  would  have  begun  to 
speak  spurred  her  to  a  fever  of  alarm,  while 
a  terrible  nervous  incapacity  chained  her 
limbs  ami  paralyzed  her  tongue. 

Bale-Corphew's  words  rose  to  her  mind. 
"He  will  fool   us — as  he  has  fooled   us  be- 

163 


TMC    (VW5TICS 


fore."  In  the  apprehension  aroused  by  the 
memory,  she  half  rose  in  her  chair,  her 
hands  grasping  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front 
of  her;  but  suddenly  the  chapel,  the  lights, 
the  congregation  seemed  to  fade  from  her 
vision,  and  she  sank  back  into  her  place. 
The  Prophet  had  begun  to  speak. 

"My  People,"  he  said,  very  calmly  and 
distinctly,  "heretofore  I  have  spoken  to  you 
as  a  teacher.  To-night  1  will  speak  to  you 
as  one  of  yourselves." 

Something  in  the  tone — something  in  the 
words — struck  a  note  of  surprise  and  un- 
easiness. Again  Bale-Corphew  shot  a  swift 
glance  at  Norov,  and  old  Michael  Arian 
lifted  his  head  and  strained  his  sightless  eyes 
towards  the  Throne,  while  Enid's  hands 
tightened  spasmodically  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  in  front  of  her,  and  her  lips  parted  in 
new  fear.  What  was  he  going  to  say  ? 
How  much  further  was  he  going  to  com- 
promise himself  ?     But  the  body  of  the  con- 

164 


ThC    MYSTICS 


U»&(g4gH£S<S>A4a,&'f(U 

gregation  swayed  forward  in  absorbed  at- 
tention, and  the  Prophet  continued  to  survey 
the  fixed  faces  with  grave,  steady  eyes. 

"My  People,"  he  said,  "you  are  an  un- 
usual gathering.  Some  would  call  you  a 
gathering  of  fanatics — some  might  even  call 
you  a  gathering  of  fools.  But  fools,  fanatics, 
or  Mystics,  you  are  all  men  and  women. 
You  are  all  human  beings!" 

Old  Arian  started,  and  Norov's  cold,  blue 
eyes  flashed;  but  still  the  Prophet  was  obliv- 
ious of  their  emotion. 

"It  is  always  well  to  study  one's  own  kind; 
and  to-night  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you  of 
a  man.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of 
a  man — a  man  as  passionate,  as  headstrong, 
as  weak  and  vulnerable  as  you  yourselves. " 
He  halted  for  a  moment,  and  his  glance 
seemed  to  grow  more  concentrated,  more  in- 
tense. 

"Once,  many  years  ago,  there  was  a  boy 
born    here,   in   this   city   of  London.     Don't 

165 


TttC    SVjy5TiCS 


lose  patience!  My  story  has  the  merit  of 
truth. 

"There  was  nothing  pleasant,  there  was 
nothing  easy,  in  the  circumstances  of  this 
boy's  birth.  His  first  sight  of  the  world 
was  gained  through  the  window  of  a  tene- 
ment-house, and  the  picture  he  saw  was 
the  picture  of  an  alley — dark,  foul,  teeming 
with  life.  His  first  knowledge  of  existence 
was  the  realization  of  poverty — not  the  free, 
wholesome  poverty  of  the  country,  but  the 
grinding,  sordid,  continuous  poverty  of  the 
town,  that  no  tongue  can  adequately  de- 
scribe. 

"These  were  his  surroundings — this  was 
his  environment;  and  yet — so  great  are  the 
miracles  that  love  can  accomplish  —  every 
day  of  that  boy's  life  was  illumined  and 
glorified  by  one  presence.  God  in  his  bounty 
had  given  him  a  mother!" 

It  was  the  first  time  in  any  discourse  that 
he  had  mentioned  the  supreme  Name,  and 

166 


Jht  (vmncs 


as  if  conscious  of  the  tremor  it  aroused,  he 
continued  his  narrative  without  pause. 

'To  say  that  a  boy's  life  is  made  happier 
by  his  mother's  existence  sounds  too  trite 
and  obvious  to  bear  any  weight;  but  it  is 
tli rough  the  obvious  facts  of  life  that  the 
world's  machinery  is  kept  in  motion.  The 
inexpressible,  unwearying  tenderness  of  this 
mother  for  her  son,  the  love  of  this  boy  for 
his  mother,  grew  with  the  passage  of  time — 
grew  into  something  so  significant,  so  vir;il 
and  so  deep,  that  even  the  poisonous  at- 
mosphere of  the  alley  could  not  thwart  its 
growth. 

'This  feeling  grew  in  the  boy's  heart;  and 
with  it  by  a  necessary  law  of  nature — an- 
other feeling  took,  root  and  grew  also.  Fired 
by  stories  of  a  past,  in  which  wealth  and 
position  had  been  won  by  Ins  forefathers, 
he  conceived  the  idea  ol  becoming  in  his 
own  person  a  hero  a  knight-errant.  And 
in   the   grimv,  common    alley;    in    the    poor, 


the.  (vjysTics 


bare  sitting-room  where  his  mother  sewed 
unendingly;  in  the  dark  closet  under  the 
slates  where  at  night  he  dreamed  his  child's 
dreams,  he  built  castles  such  as  never  stood 
upon  the  hills  of  Spain! 

"The  germ  of  his  ambition  fell  into  his 
soul  like  a  seed  of  fire;  and,  like  a  seed  of 
fire,  sprang  into  a  flame.  At  whatever  price 
— at  whatever  sacrifice  —  there  must  be  a 
golden  future,  in  which  the  mother  he  adored 
would  sit  in  high  places;  in  which  the  worn 
hands  would  never  ply  a  needle  except  for 
pastime,  the  frail  figure  grow  straight  and 
strong,  the  pale  face  warm  and  brighten 
with  the  colors  of  health! 

"  It  was  a  very  humble,  a  very  young  am- 
bition, but  it  sprang  from  the  true,  clean 
source  of  untainted  love,  like  which  there  is 
nothing  else  in  all  the  world."  He  paused; 
and  from  his  grave  voice  it  seemed  that  a 
wave  of  emotion  passed  across  the  chapel. 
The  congregation,  too  fascinated  by  his  words 

1 68 


ThE.    MYSTICS 


to  question  their  meaning,  drew  a  sigh  of 
rapt  anticipation.  Enid,  amazed,  bewilder- 
ed, moved  beyond  herself,  sat  immovable — 
her  face  pale,  her  great  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
Throne.  Only  the  six  Arch-Mvst'cs  stirred 
uneasily,  glancing  at  each  other  with  quiet, 
uncertain  looks. 

Presently,  as  though  he  had  marshalled 
his  ideas  for  the  continuation  of  his  speech, 
the  Prophet   raised  his  hand. 

"My  People,"  he  began,  again,  "do  not 
think  that  I  am  going  to  compel  you  to  listen 
to  a  psychological  discourse  upon  this  boy's 
development.  That  is  not  my  intention. 
But  were  I  to  hold  up  a  picture  for  your  in- 
spection, you  could  not  properly  appreciate 
it  were  you  ignorant  of  the  art  of  drawing. 
And  so  it  is  with  my  story.  To  understand 
the  completed  work,  you  must  understand  the 
manner  of  its  growth. 

'Though  this  boy  lived  in  obscurity,  he 
was  bound  by  one  link  with  the  great  things 

169 


the:  mystics 


AkCf 


of  the  world.  But  for  the  unjust  disinheri- 
tance of  his  father,  he  would  have  been  heir 
to  a  vast  property;  and  through  all  his  youth, 
this  had  been  the  golden  mirage  that  had 
floated  before  his  vision — this  had  been  the 
fabled  country  from  which  his  castle  rose. 
Steadily,  unfalteringly,  one  idea  had  expand- 
ed in  his  mind.  By  some  brave  action — 
by  some  deed  of  heroism — he  was  to  win 
back  the  lost  inheritance. 

"Time  passed.  And  with  its  passage  the 
wheel  of  fate  revolved.  By  one  of  those 
strange  chances  for  which  no  man  can  ac- 
count,  the  opportunity  that  the  boy  longed 
for  fell  across  his  path. 

"It  came.  But  it  came  enveloped  in  no 
cloud  of  glory.  The  path  to  the  lost  in- 
heritance was  steep  and  rugged  and  dark. 
He  was  called  upon  to  leave  his  mother;  to 
leave  the  place  that,  however  sordid,  however 
mean,  was  yet  his  home;  and  to  enter  upon  a 
period  of  servitude  with  an  unknown  master 

170 


tmc  (vmnes 


U<f4&&©&£5&A£cf&<t'<U 

— a  man  related  to  him  by  blood,  whom  re- 
port described  as  an  eccentric — a  miser — a 
madman." 

As  he  said  these  words  a  curious  thing 
occurn  d.  A  wave  of  color  flushed  old 
Arian's  sightless  face;  an  inarticulate  sound 
escaped  him,  and  he  made  a  tremulous  at- 
tempt to  rise.  But  the  movement  was  in- 
stantlv  checked  by  Bale-Corphew,  who  bent 
close    to    him    and    whispered    quickie    in    his 

ear. 

Neither  gesture  nor  whisper  was  noted  by 
the  Prophet.  His  own  face  had  paled  as  if 
with  some  (hep  emotion;  and  lowering  his 
raised  hand,  he  spoke  again  with  a  new, sup- 
pressed intensity. 

"Hun  began  the  vital  period  of  that  boy's 
eareer.  He  left  his  home — he  left  the  mother 
he  loved— he  went  into  voluntary  exile,  ani- 
mated by  one  purpose.  Remembi  r  that, 
my  People!  Me  went  into  the  service  of  this 
man  animated    by  one   purpose     the   deter- 

171 


mination  to  win  back  his  rightful  fortune! 
And  for  seven  weary  years  he  continued  his 
pursuit.  For  the  seven  most  vital  years  of 
his  youth  he  suppressed  every  instinct  that 
animates  a  boy! 

He  worked  more  laboriously  than  the  labor- 
er in  the  fields,  for  mental  servitude  is  more 
galling  to  the  young  than  any  physical  strain. 
But  he  never  faltered;  and  at  last  he  had  the 
pride  of  knowing  that  his  end  was  gained — 
he  had  the  pride  of  knowing  that  he  had 
become  indispensable  to  the  master  whom 
he  served!"  Again  he  paused,  but  this  time 
the  pause  was  of  impressive  weight.  Un- 
consciously, and  without  analyzing  the  feel- 
ing, every  member  of  the  congregation  felt 
that  some  announcement  was  pending — that 
some  extraordinary  revelation  was  about  to 
be  made. 

Enid  sat  rigid,  holding  her  breath  in  an 
agony  of  suspense,  fascinated  and  appalled 
by  the  incomprehensible  discourse.     Behind 

172 


ThC   mystics 


the  high  railing,  old  Michael  Arian's  lips 
moved  rapidly  and  nervously,  as  though  he 
were  muttering  inaudible  prayers;  while  Bale- 

C  "iphew's  florid  face  flamed,  as,  with  a  rapid, 
agitated  movement,  he  glanced  over  the  tense 
lues  of  the  congregation.  For  one  moment 
it  seemed  that  he  was  bracing  himself  for 
action,  hut  before  his  intentions  could  bear 
fruit,  the  voice  of  the  Prophet  again  rang  out 
across  the  chapel. 

"My  People!"  he  said.  "It  is  now  that  I 
appeal  to  your  humanity!  It  is  now  that  I 
ask.  each  one  of  you — men  and  women — to 
stand  in  this  boy's  place — this  boy,  built  like 
yourselves  of  human  desires,  human  hopes, 
human  weaknesses.  After  seven  long  years 
he  touched  the  knowledge  that  he  had  become 
indispensable;  and  the  bearer  of  that  knowl- 
edge was  Death     his  master's  master! 

"Death  came;  ami  in  his  dull  presence  the 
boy  saw  his  task  completed  laid  aside  like  a 
w  ritten  scroll! 

•7? 


the:  mystics 


"It  was  the  most  glorious  moment  of  his 
life — -that  moment  m  which  he  stood  with 
unshaken  faith,  looking  towards  the  future. 
But  the  darker  side  of  existence  was  his 
portion;  he  had  been  born  to  the  darker 
side.  Within  one  hour  of  his  master's  death, 
his  dreams  were  dispelled.  He  learned  that, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  man  he  had  served,  he  had 
never  passed  beyond  the  position  of  the  out- 
cast— the  dependent,  whose  services  are  liber- 
ally rewarded  by  the  gift  of  a  few  hundred 
pounds.  The  fortune — the  inheritance — the 
golden  mirage,  was  no  longer  existent,  save 
as  something  that  did  not  concern  him.  By 
the  disposition  of  his  master's  will,  it  had 
passed  into  the  coffers  of  a  religious  body — a 
fantastic,  unknown  sect  to  which  the  old 
man  had  belonged!" 

The  announcement  fell  with  strange  effect. 
Enid,  inspired  by  sudden  terror,  rose  to  her 
feet;  Bale-Corphew  sat  gripping  the  arm  of 
his    chair,    his    face    contorted,    his    mouth 

174 


TME.    (vmTltS 


working,  while-  a  rustle,  an  audible  mur- 
mur of  excitement  passed  over  the  whole 
chapel,  and  tin-  Precursor,  who  all  along 
had  been  crouching  at  the  foot  of  the  throne, 
turned  quickly  and  anxiously  towards  his 
master. 

But  the  Prophet  reassured  him  by  a  ges- 
ture. It  seemed  that  he  was  exalted  by 
some  emotion,  lifted  above  his  surround- 
ings by  some  invisible  power. 

'Put  vourselves  in  this  hoy's  place!"  he 
cried.  'Was  there  ever  a  position  so  in- 
tensely human  :  The  thing  he  had  striven 
for — the  thing  he  needed  inordinately— had 
bein  wrenched  from  him  by  a  band  of  peo- 
ple who,  in  his  eyes,  were  either  fools  or 
knaves.  WIi.it  would  you  have  done  in  his 
position  ?  What  would  have  been  \our  im- 
pulse ?  What  your  instinct?  If  I  know  any- 
thing ot  human  nature,  it  would  have  been 
the  same  as  his  -precisely,  accurately  the 
same  as  his! 

175 


ThC    My5TICS 


A^CT*"! 


"He  had  known  for  years  of  this  sect  to 
which  his  master  belonged;  and  for  years  he 
had  held  it  in  contempt.  In  his  normal, 
youthful  eyes,  the  idea  of  a  creed  that  denied 
the  high,  simple  theory  of  Christianity,  and 
awaited  the  coming  of  a  mythical  Prophet 
was  a  subject  for  healthy  scorn.  And  now 
suddenly  it  was  forced  upon  his  understand- 
ing that  this  anaemic  sect  —  this  mystical, 
anticipated  Prophet — were  his  rivals — the 
despoilers  of  his  private  intimate  hopes. 

"Such  a  knowledge  has  power  to  work  a 
miracle;  and  in  one  single  night  it  changed 
this  boy  into  a  man.  Embittered,  hopeless, 
stranded,  inspiration  came  to  him.  He  con- 
ceived the  tremendous  idea  of  entering  upon 
a  new  fight — a  second  quest  of  the  great  in- 
heritance. He  conceived  the  idea;  and  stand- 
ing, as  it  were,  upon  a  different  plane  of  life, 
he  saw — " 

But  the  Prophet  got  no  further.  With  a 
gesture  of  violent  excitement,  Bale-Corphew 

176 


ThC    (vmTICS 


rose;  at  the  same  instant  the  Precursor 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  in  a  defensive 
attitude  before  the    Throne. 

The  whole  scene  was  enacted  in  a  second. 
Enid,  grasping  its  full  meaning,  turned  very 
white  and  dropped  back  into  her  seat,  while 
the  whole  congregation  strained  forward  in 
unanimous  amazement  and  curiosity. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  hot,  angry 
glance  of  Bale-Corphew  met  that  of  the 
Prophet.  He  glared  at  him  for  one  moment 
in  speechless  rage,  then  he  turned  to  the 
people. 

"Mystics!"  he   cried,   in    a    choked   voice. 
'In    accordance   with    a    solemn    duty,    I — I 
proclaim  this  man  to  be — " 

But  before  he  could  proceed  the  Precursor 
interrupted. 

'People!  Mystics!"  hi'  cried,  raising  his 
penetrating  voice.  'Is  this  right?  Is  this 
permissible  r" 

A  murmur  rose  from  the  chapel. 

»77 


THE!    MySTICS 


U»4cg>*©ftS5*A4d't  +  U 

Bale-Corphew's  face  became  purple. 

"People!  hear  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "This 
man  is  no  Prophet.  He  is  an  impostor!  A 
fraud!     I  have  proof.     I  can  give  you  proof !" 

Of  the  extraordinary  effect  of  these  words 
Enid — crouching  helplessly  in  her  seat — saw 
nothing.  All  her  senses  were  riveted  upon 
one  object — the  tall,  calm  figure  upon  the 
steps  of  the  Throne.  By  the  power  of  intui- 
tion, rather  than  by  physical  observation, 
she  saw  the  look  of  intense  surprise,  of  in- 
credulity merging  to  dismay,  that  crossed 
the  Prophet's  face  at  the  Arch-Mystic's 
words.  And  at  the  sight  the  real  meaning 
of  his  incomprehensible  discourse  passed 
over  her  mind  in  a  wave  of  incredulous  ad- 
miration. Believing  himself  secure  in  his 
position,  he  had  voluntarily  chosen  to  de- 
nounce himself. 

That  was  her  first  thought  as  the  matter 
became  clear  to  her;  but  a  chilling  second 
thought  followed  sharp  upon  it.     What  would 

178 


Thf_    (vmTICS 


be  the  Prophet's  reading  of  Bale-Corphew's 
knowledge  ?  Would  not  one  solution — and 
one  only — present  itself  to  his  mind?  The 
idea  that  she  had  betrayed  his  confidence-. 
With    the   honor   of  th«  jestion    an    un- 

gov<  in  ible  impulse  filled  her — an  impulse  to 
rise-  -to  go  to  him  —sweep  the  doubt  from  his 
mind.  But  an  instant  later  the  merely 
egotistical  thought  was  obliterated  by  the 
greater  issues  that   tilled  the  moment. 

Vfter  Bale-Corphew  had  spoken  an  up- 
roar—  a  clamor  —  had  suddenly  filled  the 
chapel;  and  now  the  rapt  concourse  of  peo- 
ple had  become  as  a  turbulent  sea.  The 
Precursor,  pale  with  intense  nervous  excite- 
ment, stood  vainly  striving  to  make  his  voice 
heard;  while  Bale  -  Corphew,  closely  sur- 
rounded by  his  fellow -Mystic-,  gesticulated 
violently. 

At  last  the  Prophet  raised  his  hand;  ami 
In-  habit  and  training,  the  people  subsided 
into  silence. 

179 


ThE.    My3TICS 

Instantly  Bale-Corphew's  voice   rang  out. 

"Listen!"  he  cried;  "listen!" 

But  again  the  Precursor  interrupted. 

"People,"  he  demanded,  "will  you  refuse 
the  Prophet  the  right  of  speech  ?  Will  you 
refuse  to  hear  the  Prophet's  words  ?" 

'This  is  sacrilege!  Sacrilege!"  Norov 
suddenly  raised  his  voice.  "Listen  to  your 
Councillor!" 

"Listen  to  the  Prophet!  The  Voice  of  the 
Prophet  calls  upon  you.  Will  you  deny  it  r" 
The  Precursor's  voice  shook  with  excite- 
ment. 

'This  is  the  truth!  I  tell  you  the  truth!" 
Bale-Corphew  appealed  to  the  people  with 
out-stretched  arms. 

But  the  tumult  broke  forth  again. 

"Mystics!  Mystics!"  Old  Arian's  shrill, 
alarmed  tones  rose  for  an  instant,  only  to  be 
drowned  in  the  clamor. 

Then  out  of  the  confused  babel  of  sound 
one  cry  became  distinguishable. 

1 80 


The  (vmncs 


'The  Prophet!  The  Prophet!  Let  the 
Prophet  speak!" 

For  a  space  confusion  reigned;  then,  an- 
swering to  the  demand,  the  Prophet  again 

lifted  his  right  hand. 

As  though  it  exercised  some  potent  spell, 
his  calm,  imperious  gesture  subdued  the 
turmoil.  When  silence  had  been  restored 
he  began  to  speak;  and  never,  since  he  had 
addressed  the  first  Gathering,  had  so  chip  a 
note  of  domination  and  decision  been  audi- 
ble in  his  voice. 

"Mystics!"  he  cried,  "there  is  no  time 
foi  preamble  or  delay.  As  the  Arch-Mystic 
says,  you  must  have  truth!  Perhaps  there  is 
no  need  to  tell  you  that  the  history  I  have 
just  related  to  you  has  an  imminent  bearing 
upon  your  lives  and  mine.  You  probably 
know,  without  ni}'  telling,  that  the  boy  of 
my  storj  and  I  arc-  one  and  tin  same  prison; 
that  tin-  fanatic  sect,  for  which  1  was  made 
a  beggar,  is  your  own  sect     the  sect  of  the 

13  I  S  I 


Th£l   mystics 


U»4(gxt)@4£g<§iAl>Cf&<fU 

Mystics.  But  so  it  is.  On  a  wild,  dark 
night  ten  years  ago  I  learned  that  the  money 
which  should  have  been  mine — the  money 
which  should  have  been  the  recompense  for 
my  mother's  hard  life— had  been  given  to 
you.  Given  for  the  use  of  a  Prophet  in 
whose  coming  you  believed! 

"My  feelings  on  that  night  were  the 
criminal  feelings  that  underlie  all  civiliza- 
tion. I  had  only  one  desire — to  destroy — to 
be  avenged.  My  uncle,  Andrew  Hender- 
son, was  an  Arch-Mystic  of  your  sect;  and 
on  the  night  he  died,  your  sacred  Scitsym 
was  in  his  house!" 

The  congregation  thrilled,  and  the  blind 
Arch-Councillor  turned  and  clutched  Bale- 
Corphew's  arm. 

"My  first  impulse  was  to  destroy  that 
book.  Look  at  it,  look  at  it!"  He  pointed 
to  the  lectern.  "Ten  years  ago,  I  knelt  be- 
fore a  fire  with  its  pages  in  my  hand,  and 
black  thoughts  of  revenge  in  my  heart.     But 

182 


THE.    (vmTICS 


the  devil  of  temptation  lurks  in  strange 
places,  in  the  very  act  of  destruction,  an 
inspiration  came  to  me.  \  man  was  ex- 
pectedl  A  Prophet  was  expected!  And  in 
the  pages  of  the  Scitsym  were  contained  the 
attributes,  the  secret  signs,  the  manifold  ways 
in  which   he  was  to  make  good   his  claim. 

4 1  come  of  an  obstinate  stock  -of  a  stock 
that  in  the  past  has  overcome  many  obstacles. 
Thar  night  I  copied  out  the  whole  of  your 
Scitsym,  and  afterwards,  as  soon  as  I  reason- 
ably could,  1  left  Scotland. 

"  1  went  at  once  ro  my  mother,  I  told  her 
that,  according  to  the  disposition  oi  my 
uncle's  will,  I  was  to  inherit  his  fortune  in 
ten  years'  time,  and  that  in  the  interval  I 
was  to  fit  myself  for  wealth  by  profound 
study.  It  was  the  first  time  in  all  my  life 
that  I  had  lied  to  hei  I 

"But  to  come  to  the  end,  your  Prophet 
was  to  hi-  a  studenl  <>l  Eastern  loir.  With 
this  knowledge  in   my  mind,   1   started  with 

[83 


IhL    (V)y5TICS 

my  mother  for  the  East.  What  has  hap- 
pened since  then  is  immaterial.  My  second 
probation  has  been  as  hard  as  my  first.  But 
I  accomplished  two  things.  I  fitted  myself 
mentally  and  physically  for  the  part  I  was 
going  to  play,  and  I  made  one  stanch, 
wholly  disinterested  friend!"  With  a  gesture 
of  grave  affection,  he  indicated  the  Precursor. 

In  the  opportunity  that  the  slight  pause 
gave,  Bale  -  Corphew  sprang  forward  and, 
resting  his  hands  upon  the  Sanctuary  rail- 
ing, faced  the  congregation. 

"People!"  he  cried,  hoarsely,  "be  not 
deceived!  This  man  pretends  to  tell  you 
what  he  is.  He  is  blinding  you — weaving  a 
bandage  of  specious  words  across  your  eyes. 
But  I  will  undeceive  you.  I  will  tear  the 
bandage — "  He  hesitated,  stammered, 
paused. 

With  a  movement  full  of  fire,  full  of 
authority,  the  Prophet  stepped  from  the 
Throne. 

184 


ThC  (vmncs 


"Silence!"  he  cried.  "There  is  no  need 
for  interference.  This  matter  is  between 
the  People  ami  myself."  With  a  pale  face 
unci  burning  eyes  In-  stepped  forward,  and 
standing  Inside  the  Arch-Mystic  confronted 
the  congregation. 

"I  will  tell  \"ii  everything  that  this  man 
would  tell  you,"  In-  said,  m  .1  steady  voice. 
"I  believe  I  will  even  use  the  word  he  him- 
self would  choose.  I  am  a  thief!  I  am  a 
thief— in  intention  if  not  in  act!" 

Tin  effect  of  the  word  was  tremendous. 
A  perfectly  audible  gasp  went  up  from  the 
breathless  crowd;  and,  by  one  accord,  the 
people  rose  and  swayed  upward  towards  the 
Sanctuary. 

Calm  and  immovable  as  a  rock,  the 
Prophet  held  his  place. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  steadily,  "until  this  morn- 
ing I  have  virtually  been  a  thief.  Until  this 
morning  it  was  my  linn  intention  to  take  by 
force  that  which  should  have  come  to  me  as 

185 


the:  My5Tics 


my  right.  The  fact  that  my  intention  fal- 
tered at  the  last  moment  does  not  affect  the 
case.  I  wish  to  make  no  appeal.  My  de- 
sire"— his  voice  suddenly  quickened — "my 
desire  is  plainly  and  simply  to  state  my  case. 

"Morally  I  have  done  you  no  wrong.  My 
teaching  has  been  the  expounding  of  simple 
truths,  that  my  personal  action  could  not  dese- 
crate. I  stand  before  you  to-night  empty- 
handed  as  I  came.  The  one  thing  I  claim 
from  you  is  judgment! 

"Judge  me!  I  am  in  your  hands.  If  you 
think  I  deserve  punishment,  punish  me!  If 
you  think  circumstances  have  made  me  what 
I  am,  then  stand  aside!  Let  me  pass  out  of 
your  lives!" 

There  was  a  great  silence;  then  a  wom- 
an's sharp  cry  rang  out  across  the  chapel, 
as,  with  a  savage  movement,  three  of  the 
Arch-Mystics  sprang  upon  the  Prophet. 

"Sacrilege!  Sacrilege!"  Bale-Corphew's 
voice  rose  loud  and  violent. 

1 86 


The.   (vmncs 


But  he  had  calculated  without  his  host. 
I  he  fanaticism  of  a  crowd  is  ;i  dangerous 
weapon  with  which  to  tamper,  and  the  de- 
thronement of  a  king  is  not  accomplished 
in  a  day.  With  the  speed  of  light,  the 
element  he  had  unloosed  turned  upon  him- 
self. 

Wain   one  word   disentangled   itself   from 
the  medley  oi  sounds 

"The  Prophet!  The  Prophet!"  Like  an 
ignited  fuse,  instinct  had  been  lighted  in  the 
people.  The  man  who  for  months  had  been 
exalted— honored  well-nigh  worshipped 
was  in  imminent  peril!  I  hat  one  thought 
submerged  and  demolished  every  other. 

There  was  a  forward  movement     a  roar — 
i   crash     and   the  high,   gilt   railings  of  the 
Sanctuary  went  down  as  before  a  storm. 

To  Enid,  who  had  been  borne  irresistibly 
upward  on  the  human  tide,  then'  was  one 
overpowering  moment  ol  fear  and  clamor, 
in   which    the   cry   of    '  !  he    Proplu  I !      Hie 


THL    (V)y5TICS 


**♦&<$)$  ©assiAicfi  +  n 

Prophet!"  dominated  her  consciousness;  then, 
to  her.  the  world  became  suddenly  and  merci- 
fully sightless,  soundless,   and   void. 

When  at  last  her  eyes  opened — when  at 
last  her  senses  falteringly  returned  to  the 
consciousness  of  present  things — she  was  in 
her  own  familiar  room.  The  atmosphere 
breathed  of  repose  and  peace;  through  the 
drawn  curtains  the  hum  of  London  came 
subdued  and  soothing;  in  the  room  itself 
the  lights  were  modulated  and  the  fire  glow- 
ed soft  and  mellow,  while  a  faint,  pungent 
smell  of  restoratives  filled  the  air.  But  these 
details  came  but  vaguely  to  her  appreciation, 
for  the  first  object  upon  which  her  glance 
and  her  ideas  rested  was  the  figure  of  John 
Henderson,  kneeling  beside  the  couch  on 
which  she  lay. 

For  a  long,  silent  space  she  gazed  bewil- 
dered inro  the  grave  face  bent  over  her  own — 
striving  to  fathom  whether  this  was  another 

188 


the.  (vmncs 


phase  of  an  extraordinarily  prolonged  and 
harassing  dream,  or  whether  ir  had  any  bear- 
ing upon  real  life;  then,  as  the  pained,  be- 
wildered sensation  deepened  in  her  mind,  it 
was  suddenly  illumined  by  a  flash  of  recol- 
lection; ami  starting  up,  she  caughi  Hender- 
son's hand. 

Bur  before  she  could  speak  he  laid  his 
fuiL't  i s  gently  over  her  eyes. 

'You  are  nor  t<>  think,"  he  said.  "To- 
night  is   p. ISt." 

'Bur  IhlliiT  Crescent?  What  happened 
alter     after      :" 

Vgain  he  made  a  soothing  movement. 

'  ^  on  must  nor  think  ol  ir.  I  hey  gathered 
round  me.  The)'  were  generous.  They 
heaped  coals  of  fire. 

Enid  lay  silent,  conscious  with  a  keen  yet 
poignant  pleasure  ol  his  hand  upon  her  face. 
I  Inn  suddenly  a  new   thought  obtruded  it- 
self, and  drawing  awa)  his  fingers,  slu-  looked 
up  into  his  face. 

189 


The  (vmncs 


"And  after  to-night —  ?"  she  said,  in  a  low, 
unsteady  voice. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer,  and  in 
the  soft  light  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  shadow 
of  pain  passed  over  his  face. 

Again  she  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
his. 

'What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked, 
below  her  breath. 

At  last  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  fully 
at  her. 

"I  am  going  back  to  the  East.  The  hard- 
est task  of  my  life  is  awaiting  me  there.  It 
is  a  very  bitter  thing  to  disillusionize  the 
person  to  whom  one  is  a  hero." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly. 

'You  are  speaking  of  your  mother?  You 
are  thinking  of  your  mother?" 

He  bent  his  head. 

For  a  space  neither  spoke.  Vaguely,  and 
in  distant  accompaniment  to  their  thoughts, 
each  was  conscious  of  the  hum  of  traffic  and 

IQO 


ThC    MYSTICS 


of  the  softly  crackling  fire;  then  ;ir  hist  Enid 
stirred,  and  with  a  gesture  lull  <>l  compre- 
hension, lur  fingers  closed  round  Hender- 
son's. 

'Let  me  tell  her  the  story!"  she  said,  al- 
most inaudibly.      'Take  me  with  you     and 
let  me  tell  her!     We  are  both  women,  and— 
Her    head    drooped    slightly;    and    her    face 
Hushed.     "Ami  we  both  1<>m   vmi." 


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